Only Half of You
by Tricksi
Summary: "But you never gave me a chance to!" she exclaims forcefully, her arms cutting the air with futile frustration. "Not until… you did, and then… It was too late". The story of when the reaping for the 74th Hunger Games turns out differently, and tables are turned. A story of 'please don't leave me alone' and of being left behind. Eventual overly dramatic Galeniss, yes!
1. Against all odds

**A/N: **Dear reader: how do you feel about overly dramatic, bittersweet love stories? Apparently, I like to write them, like to lay awake at night and conjure up heartbreak that isn't my own. If you do, too, this is definitely your kind of story.

It's nothing original, just a story of the reaping at the beginning of _the Hunger Games _turning out differently, that others have made an attempt at before me. If my story resembles others that you've read, it's probably not a coincidence... But the idea has been stuck in my mind for a long while, and well, I though I might as well write my own take of it.

Here, I may have made both Katniss and Gale a little less tough then they originally are in the book, so if they seem out of character, I'm well aware.

Thank you for giving this story a try, and please let me know your thoughts!

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The morning of the 74th annual Hunger Games dawns overcast but dry, coal dust filling the air to stifling levels in the thick humidity. As the day wears on, the tension already filling the air with fear intensifies with the unrelenting pressure of rain refusing to fall. By midday, every citizen within the confines of District 12 could feel the creeping, heavy sensation of dread deep in their hearts, and Katniss Everdeen more so than most. She knows she has nowhere to hide -not from the clammy, dirty air making her worn but pretty blue dress stick to her skin, and certainly not from the Capitols vengeful eye, which she feels is just waiting to descend on her, whisk her away from everything she holds dear. Or perhaps not on her, but then on either of the other children whose lives are connected with hers. As she sees it, this day can go only two ways: disaster, or respite for a whole other year. There is nothing in between. The probability of the former is too big for her liking, if either she gets selected herself, with her twenty ill-fated slips scattered around that hateful bowl, or if the name called from the boys happens to be Gale Hawthorne. With his obscene amount of no less than forty-two name slips, he's in much more danger than she is to be chosen to give his life to the rulers of Panem. And also, he's her best friend.

Katniss allows herself a quick scan over to the oldest boys' section, and finds Gale easily among them. Not only is he one of the tallest boys in the district, at eighteen more a man than a boy, but he's also among the few young men standing straight, with his head held high in defiance. She has to smile a little at this, stand a little straighter herself as she draws strength from his courage. Katniss and Gale, a team of hunters, she reminds herself proudly. Nothing can break them, not even a lifetime of unfair conditions and the odds against their favour. After this day, _when _danger has passed, he will have eluded the wrath that is called the Hunger Games securely, forever. Katniss still has two more reaping to go before reaching relative freedom, but surely, they'll both be fine. He had assured her as much only a couple of hours ago, as they parted ways after spending the morning hunting in the woods. If only it weren't for her sister, Katniss would be almost calm, but as it is, Primrose is only twelve. The next six years will be a time of constant, bone-deep fear, since the worst thing in the world would be if they stole away Prim to a place where Katniss could no longer protect her, and then carelessly endangered her life. She can feel her heart thunder against her ribs at the very thought.

Gale senses her looking at him, and catches her eyes, grey on grey across the crowd. The ill fated in this district all wear the same tell-tale signs, branding them for what they are with darkish skin, black hair and eyes the colour of stone. He flashes her a warm, reassuring grin, just like she unwillingly needs him to. _One slip, only one slip_, his eyes seem to be telling her. She smiles bravely back at him, flicks her head in the direction of the stage ahead as if to say: look at that woman, how can such silly people stand any chance against us? The Capitolite in question is the woman whose job it is to organise the Games in their district- the lowliest of them all. She must be tackling the despair at representing such a hopeless place by decorating herself with bright colours, but thus she only succeeds in standing out even more in the dull glumness here, where coal turns everything grey. Gale winks back at her, and Katniss instantly feels better. She turns her head to find Prim in the crowd of children, wanting to share her new courage with her little sister. She knows Prim is terrified, even more so than herself.

That's when the microphone sparkles to life with a loud ringing noise of speaker feed that makes the audience flinch collectively. The woman of stage pulls her stark pink lips into a ridiculously bright smile, and welcomes them all, as if this place were hers to start with. Katniss silently wishes her all the way to hell, before finally spotting Prim among the twelve-year-old girls. With her blond braids and white shirt a few numbers too big, she looks far too young and angelic to be here. Her large eyes, the colour of the summer sky breaking through above, are fixed rigidly ahead, unaware of the attempted smile that her sister throws her way.

Katniss fixes the small figure with her eyes as the talk onstage drawls on, noticing how Prim's shirt has escaped her plaited skirt at the back, sticking out to form a little duck tail again despite their mother's best attempt. She's vaguely aware of the high-pitched voice on the speakers announcing that it's ladies first for the drawing.

_Please don't let it be her, don't let it be her._

When a familiar name rings out across the town square, she doesn't even react at first. It wasn't her, and it wasn't her sister, but then why does she suddenly feel like something is terribly wrong anyway? Before the initial relief is completely out of her system, she notices that all eyes present are turned at her. Or more correctly, in her direction. A frown slips through her stony facial mask as she hears a sharp intake of breath to her right. Slowly, she blinks, turns her head to the side, and only then does the chosen name register in her brain.

Madge Undersee- the tall girl to her right, her only potential girlfriend in the entire world. And also the mayor's daughter, which technically should mean that the odds would be always in her favour. Her face is a mask of complete and utter shock; her pretty features scrunched up and green eyes wide. Across the audience, her expression is mirrored all over. Katniss tunes out the commotion on the stage, where the Mayor, whose job it is to send the tributes off each year, is clearly as unprepared for this outcome as is his daughter. Tentatively, she reaches out her hand to the girl beside her, squeezing her hand once in the only gesture she can think of. There are no words for a situation like this, and Katniss has never been one to know what to say anyway.

The blond girl snaps her head around to face her, fear apparent in her eyes. Katniss meets them steadily with her own, and it seems to be enough. Madge slips her face into something supposed to mirror the steely determination on her friend's face, and slowly begins to make her way forward. Katniss finds herself admiring the girl a little, how she pulls herself together as best she can. At the stage, she avoids wisely to look to her father, who is firmly held in place by the two officials on either side of him.

"Any volunteers?" his strong but shaking voice rings out over the crowd, as he places his last desperate hope in the possibility for any other girl of reaping age to willingly step forward and take Madge's place.

Katniss feels a strange, unwelcome stab of guilt surge deep inside her belly, knowing that she could do it, could save her friend from a whole world of horror and fear, could save her life. The guilty part is that she never would. No one would be stupid enough to volunteer their life for someone they had no real connection to, let alone for someone they barely even knew. She looks at Madge standing tall up there with eyes far away over the crowd, and she tries to make her heart feel nothing. _Not her problem_, she tells herself.

Then that awful woman in the pink wig announces it's time for the boy's drawing and at once, her belly clenches in pure, unadulterated fear again. So far, this reaping hasn't gone the way it should, and still it's far from over. Katniss clenches her fists tight, and her eyelids tighter, trying to wipe her mind clean, and will the next words over the microphone to be unfamiliar to her ear.

When the words are finally spoken, they echo around in her brain for a split second, as if all her surprise has already been spent and left only bleak knowledge of what will happen next. Because the first name is fine, not recognisable at first since it's completely unexpected- but the surname is so, so very wrong. Despite his large number of slips, Gale has avoided the Games for seven straight years, but in turn, his little brother Rory has not. Just like Prim, one single piece of paper carried his name in that whole big bowl, but that didn't stop it from finding its way into the Capitol's hands. But how? Katniss hasn't even bothered to worry about Rory, as if his brother's disastrous odds somehow should have evened out his own. And now, without even looking at her best friend, she knows exactly what's going to happen. Like she should have expected, disaster has won out in the end.

Gale's strong, deep voice- the one she knows and trusts more than any other voice in the world- rings out across the entire square, for the whole district to hear, before Rory has even had a chance to start walking towards the stage.

"I volunteer!" There's not a trace of hesitation in it.

And with those words, Katniss' world shifts and refocuses. She instinctively shuts off any emotion from showing on her face, and locks down her heart for action. Almost like she's heading for a fight, adrenaline courses through her veins, prepares her for what's next and before the crowd can quite grasp what's going on, she has pushed her way to his side.

The microphone is cackling something about _how exciting_, and she can sense a bit of unease sweep through the crowd, but she is focused solely on Gale's dark eyes, as grim as hers. His strong jaw is set firmly, holding back anything that might otherwise be showing for the world to see, but she can find no fear in his expression- only a sense of inevitable duty, just like she knew she would. And anger, boiling fire underneath, that threatens to spill over at any second. Gale has a temper to match his determination, but usually he will let it consume him only in her presence, when they're alone in the freedom of the forest. Now, with the immense injustice of people threatening to send his beloved little brother to slaughter, she can tell he's having trouble controlling it.

He can't lose it now, when she knows he will need his calm calculating mind more than ever, and she's not going to let him. When two Peacekeepers in white uniforms walk up to where they're standing, come to make sure Gale takes action of his pledge to be tribute, she is immediately alerted. Tearing her gaze from his, she fixes it instead on the vaguely familiar face of the man who's grabbing a rough hold of Gale's arm. She's not going to let them drag him up there, even if it's the last thing she does.

"Get your hands off him!" she snaps, her glare intense enough to shatter even the strongest of wills. The poor young Peacekeeper doesn't stand a chance, but flinches away from her best friend at once. Katniss replaces it with her own, seemingly calm enough, as if her iron grip on his bicep means nothing more than it would in the woods when it's just them, and she has spotted something urgent.

She locks her eyes on his for a moment, silently begging him to keep his temper in check for now, to be calm enough so that they'll both get through this ordeal with at least their pride intact. Gale accepts her help without question, inhaling a deep gulp of air to fill up his posture and hold up his head, just like she's still holding hers. He tugs her along with his arm, and they simultaneously turn their heads forward, taking the first fateful step straight towards to the stage. It seems strangely fitting. He's thinking that if anyone could lead him willingly down this path, it would be her. Together, they can do anything.

The mass of children part before them to form a narrow walkway, down which they stride side by side, the two officers in white trailing behind. Gale lets his mind wander astray for a short second, thinking that in another setting, in another lifetime, he can imagine this happening in a completely different way. In the background, they can hear the crying protests of his little brother, but he has to trust the rest of their families to take care of Rory. _He'll understand_, he thinks. _In time he'll understand_.

When the time comes for Katniss to let go of his arm, it takes her at least two tries before she succeeds. Her muscles are still so tightly locked that they won't respond to command, or perhaps it's her subconscious protesting loud enough that her body listens. Either way, she eventually lets her arm fall to her side, shares another look with him that bravely says _up you go_, and then he's climbing the steps to the stage in long, purposeful steps. She doesn't take her eyes off him for a second, as he rises to his full length up there, speaks out his own name for everyone to hear in a sure voice, and moves to take his place beside Madge, shaking her hand firmly. Through the long, agonizing speech that follows, drawn out since the man whose job it is to read it is close to tears, Gale's eyes find hers again, and they continue the silent conversation that they've been having this whole time:

_Stay strong. Don't you dare letting me down. We're better than them, remember that._

… And something else, quieter but still running strong and deep beneath the hard glint, only for the two of them to notice. Katniss thinks it might be the remorse of _please don't leave me alone._

When the crowd refuses to applause, instead raising their hands with three fingers out in the air towards the two young people on stage, she feels a grim satisfaction and appreciation for her hometown. Her gaze flickers quickly to Madge and then back. No, these two are certainly too good to give up easily for the amusement of the Capitol. Even the drunken man who is now their mentor seems to realise this, but she disregards his awkward display, even when he near falls over her. She refuses to think that this buffoon could be Gale's best chance in the next couple of weeks, when he deserves so incredibly much more.

Then the two tributes are escorted into the Justice Building, and she watches Gale slip out of her reach with thus far held back panic rising in her chest. Only a strong sense of duty sets her in motion, makes her automatically turn around in search for her sister and Gale's family. After all, she's basically in charge of their survival now, all according to a pact struck between her and Gale long ago. She finds them standing in a tight little group to the side of the leaving crowds; the unlucky ones left behind to despair as everyone else goes off to celebrate. Rory is inconsolable, hysteric even, despite his mother and Prim having their arms around him, trying to keep him together. To complete the chaos at hand, he has set off both his younger siblings crying, too.

Katniss stands nonplussed before them, the severity on her face not yet allowed to slip away. After a short internal debate, she chooses to at least try and do something. She leans down to grip Rory's shoulders, meets his eyes, to much like Gale's, and lets him see the determination in hers.

"Listen," she starts, shaking him a little. "It'll be okay, but you need to pull yourself together. Now." It's a little harsh, and he's only twelve, and a rather sensitive kid at that, but in her eyes, that's life. He needs to understand that.

"How will it be okay?" Rory rasps out between hiccups. His huge, redlined eyes are asking her for answers she doesn't quite have.

"It will be, because it has to," she says simply, hoping his big brother will have something better to tell the kid in a little while. "Now let's go, he's not gone yet."

Gone. Wrong choice of words, Katniss realises as she flinches at them herself. No matter how hard she tries to hold off any personal grief over what has just happened until later, she finds it impossible as realisation starts to really dawn on her. She may only have a few minutes left with her best friend, ever. Over the years since her father died, Gale has become essential to her life, her happiness and almost her sanity, with his reassuring presence at her side and his ability to make her laugh and smile through the worst of times. She has no doubts in her own ability at hunting, but it's all so much easier when they're together, when their minds connect effortlessly to form a perfect team. The thought of losing him is not one she would like to entertain, so instead, she tries to focus on the problem of keeping him alive. How does one win the Hunger Games, without turning into a complete monster?

Katniss waits with her mother and sister in the grand hallway of the Justice Building, the only real structure of grandness in 12, while Gale's family troop away to see him first. She hugs her little sister tightly, drying the fat tears trailing down her pink cheeks with a steady hand.

"I'm so happy it's not you, Kat," says Prim in a whisper. "Even if it's wrong to think so."

"Ssch, don't talk like that," she hushes her, fighting to keep the emotional overflow from getting to her. "But you know I would have done the same, if it were you."

She doesn't say it out loud, but in a way she thinks it would be easier if it _were_ indeed her going into the Games. She's sure that she would prefer to act, rather than to sit on the sideline and watch helplessly.

When she sees the Mayor and his wife exit the room beside the one where the Hawthornes went in, an idea strikes her. She tells her family to stay and wait for Gale's, to all head back to the Seam and wait for her there. Then she strides up to see Madge, most likely for the last time.

The blond girl looks up in surprise when she enters, clearly not expecting any more visitors after her parents. Like Katniss, she is not one for many shallow friendships. Once inside, Katniss doesn't quite know what she came for, but she takes a seat on a low chair next to the plush sofa where Madge is perched. The two girls stare at each other for a moment, before Katniss finds her voice.

"I'm sorry," she croaks out, fidgeting nervously with the end of her ever-present braid. What else is there to say, really?

To her surprise, Madge smiles a wry smile, and holds her back a little straighter.

"Don't be. What happened, happened." She always did seem stronger than what's expected from someone whose life has supposedly always been easy. "Besides," she continues, looking Katniss right in the eyes, "the same goes for you, too."

Of course, Madge would know about her close companionship with Gale, as she and her father are some of their best customers. Katniss nods, and then they sit in silence for a little while. She notices a beautifully crafted golden pin on the bodice of Madge's dress, but decides not to comment on it. Probably some parting gift from her parents.

Before she leaves, her allotted time run out, Katniss unexpectedly finds herself wrapped in a quick hug, and hears hushed words whispered in her ear.

"Don't worry, he'll make it back."

She can hear the words, sure, but she has not the faintest idea of what they're supposed to mean. Why would she say that? Confused, she keeps her eyes on Madge's suddenly intent face as she is escorted out of the room. She was going to say something like _it was nice to know you_ as parting words, but she can't even find time for a quick _good luck_ before the door closes behind her.

By then, it's almost her time to see Gale, his last visitor before he has to board a train that will bring him far away, into a living nightmare. She only mulls over the mayor's daughter's parting words for a minute or two, before she forcefully shoves them into the back of her mind. She has more pressing matters at hand.

The second door in the hall opens, and out falls two girls from school, sobbing dramatically even though Katniss is sure none of them knows anything about Gale, beyond his annoyingly good looks. She is well aware of how all the girls at school are giggling and gossiping about him, but it has never bothered her much. If they want to fawn over his _strong jaw line_ and _bone structure_, or whatever, that's none of her business, as long as he chooses to spend his afternoons helping her provide for their families. For all she cares, he could be hunchbacked and cross-eyed; it's his physical and mental strength that she wants him for. As a hunting partner, that is.

Gale can fool around with whomever he wants, in his free time. However, these girls annoy the living hell out of her now. In what way do their lives depend on him? What right do they have to cry? She pushes away that thought too, for the moment.

When she steps into the room where Gale is restlessly pacing to and fro, all other thoughts disappear at once. Her eyes take in the sight of him, and all she can think about is that this cannot be the last time she sees him. His body is visibly tense, the muscles standing out in his arms and one hand constantly rubbing through his short black hair.

He stops when he sees her walk in, and immediately opens his arm to her. There has never been anything romantic between them; in her mind, they've been far too busy surviving to think of such things- and besides, they're just friends. Still, she doesn't hesitate to go into them. His body is familiar to her – the way it moves, the smell of wood smoke, even the sound of his heart beating she knows from quiet moments on a hunt- but this is the first time she really feels it, lean and hard-muscled against her own. She wraps her arms tightly around his waist, and takes a few seconds to just feel the life beneath his skin.

Then she breaks away from the embrace, but stays close enough since his arms won't let her go completely. Words start to stream out of her of tactic, of hunting, and of scenarios where he has to do _everything _to survive.

"… and you have to use your traps, I'm sure you can make them work on bigger things than rabbits. Oh, and remember those healing plants that I showed you last week? Mother says that they're easy to find in most vegetation, if you just look closely enough. And…"

"Hush, Catnip," he says eventually in a low voice, using the silly nickname that he has come up with for her, seemingly without thinking. A little frown creases his forehead, as if he's trying to concentrate on something else. "I know all that already, I just don't know how to hunt… other _people._"

But she knows he would be able to, if it meant life and death, or if someone threatened to hurts one of his loved ones. Just like her.

"Then don't think of them as people," She says grimly. Her eyes turn even more intent on his, as she rushes out the next words. "Promise me you'll do whatever it takes to survive."

It takes him a moment to figure out how to respond, with her wonderful stormy eyes so close up and her chest almost pressing against his.

"I will, if you let me do one thing first?"

"Anything," she replies, bewildered and not understanding what he could possibly want from her. She's already promised not to let his family go hungry.

So therefore, she's incredibly surprised when his hands slide up her arms to take hold of her face instead. His touch on the bare skin of her arms tingles strangely, and she has just enough time to see his eyes soften and his pupils widen, as his face slowly draws nearer. On impulse, her eyelids flutter closed.

His lips close over hers in a full sensation of warmth and softness, of her lower belly fluttering like crazy and the sound of blood rushing in her ears. With a tiny movement, he makes her lips part ever so slightly, and suddenly, a rush of warmth courses through her body. She has completely forgotten how to breathe. He holds them together for another few short moments, which seem like an eternity, and then he breaks the kiss. Her first kiss, ever, and her mind is spinning dizzily from it.

"I had to do that, at least once," he whispers. His gentle outlet of air tickles along her lips, which are helplessly parted and still slightly puckered. Between her brows is a confused, but also faintly wistful crease that seems to say _why now_ more than _why._

Her hands are curled tight against his chest, but her deep grey eyes are wide open in surprise. She stares into his somewhat lighter grey ones, mesmerized by the swirling emotions she sees there, but too dazed to figure out what any of them might mean.

Then the door is burst open, and the heavy atmosphere in the room, buzzing between her body and his, is harshly broken. Two uniformed Peacekeepers marsh inside, their intrusion annoying but not enough for either of them to break the gaze. For once, they're not communicating, but simply _seeing_ each other, and it's even better.

"Time's up, no more visitors allowed," announces the man to Katniss' right, laying a firm hand on her shoulder. This time, trying to shake them off is no use- no matter how tightly he clutches her hand and asks for just one more minute _please_ to finish what he has started here, she is still quickly being marched backward to the door. Their eyes cling desperately to each other, hers still opened wide as she tries to wrap her mind around what just happened, and his pleading for her to understand, as the space between them only grows wider.

"Katniss, remember I…"

The door slams shut in her face, cutting off whatever it was he wanted her to know, with finality that echoes in her head. She didn't get to tell him good luck either, and now she will maybe never know what that strange action of his was all about. What is it with these two today? Most likely, the intense horror of being chosen to compete in the Hunger Games has driven as well Madge as Gale over the edge. Not that she had minded…

Katniss finds herself gingerly touching her tingling lips with the tops of her fingers as she makes her way out of the building, her two escorts in white letting her walk on her own accord. They're a little chapped, just as usual, and yet they have never felt softer in her whole life. If she's supposed to take some other action before heading home, if there's some kind of plan she could possibly come up with right now, she has completely forgotten about it. The cotton-like, hazy film over her brain remains firmly in place as she walks absently across town, her eyes not even registering the many pitiful eyes that turn her way, nor hearing the whispered words that trail behind her back. In her mind, the image of Gale in a completely different light refuses to give way, and it might as well stay there as long as it can, blocking out all potential unpleasant thoughts of tomorrow. Because tomorrow, she has to start dealing with the reality of being left behind at home.


	2. As the night falls

**A/N:** First of all: thanks for the fantastic welcome you gave this story! A special thanks to those of you who left me a comment or decided to follow, and well, to all of you who read chapter 1 :)

I feel like I have a bit of explaining to do, since a good few reviews were questioning where this is going. Honestly, I didn't want to spoil the storyline too early, so all I'll say is this: this is most definitely a Gale and Katniss story. Any involvement of other characters (most obviously: Madge) are only there to create suspense and intrigue. Also, I mean to focus mostly on events that correspond to _Catching Fire_, and kind of skim through the Games. My whole idea is: what would Katniss and Gale be like if she were the one to be left behind? And if she were a bit more in tune with certain emotions...

About this chapter: it's not exactly an explosion of events, but that's how I like to write my stories, with a slow build-up. And yes, most of it has been written before, but I couldn't resist doing it too. You can think of this chapter as a mood-setter for the rest of the plot, and hopefully, you will want to continue reading after it... How do you feel about that? Any criticism is good criticism, so please drop me a line afterwards! ;) (I'm pretty bored at work these days, so any pling of a new email brightens my day, really...)

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Katniss has always considered herself an independent sort of girl. She takes pride in saying she needs no one but herself, in the fact that she can do anything she needs to just fine on her own. When she was a little girl, she may have needed her father to show her the ways of the world, teach her all the basics of keeping herself and other of her choice alive, but since his premature death, she's been doing all right in taking over his responsibility. She doesn't even really mind the burden, she has been telling herself. Sure, there was a tough spell just after the explosion that killed him, when she was too susceptible to emotions like grief to be able to think clearly. But she figured it out eventually, and since then, she has been careful not to let her feeling ever come in the way of the practicality that is necessary to survive. The world may be harsh and cold here in the Seam, but so is she, and she will never let it get to her again.

That's what she's been telling herself, at least. When she trudges home through the woods outside District 12 alone for the second day in a row, with a cumbersome load of double game bags that makes her back bend awkwardly, she's beginning to have doubts. For the first time in many years, she's feeling a little lonely, and it's an emotion she thought she would never, ever let inside her heart again. After her father passed away, to leave her all by herself to fend for food in the forest, she feared the woods at first. She was only twelve, and there was such a vast wilderness out here, filled with danger and the helpless feeling of having insufficient skills to master it. The situation at hand now is eerily similar.

Between Gale's family and her own, there are seven mouths to feed, and only her to bring in real food. Either Prim or Rory taking out any extra grain by putting in their names more times for next year's reaping is out of the question. Gale's mother is able to bring in a meagre income of grain or a few coins by washing clothes in town, and Katniss' own mother spends her days treating sick people in trade for whatever they can spare her. Together, it's only enough to cover any necessary extra expenses like oil, school supplies and shoe laces, that they can't let the kids go without. Putting food in their bellies has been up to Gale and Katniss, but now that he's been shipped off to the Capitol and may never come home again, it's just her. Rory would have the potential to help out, being tall for his age and taught some useful tricks by his older brother, but he's in no state to bring out to the woods. Since the reaping two days ago, he has taken to hiding out in a shack in his family's backyard, refusing to come out other than for meals. He only agreed to eat three times a day after Katniss pointed out that the tributes are given as much food as they could ever wish for in the week before the actual Games begin. Gale would no doubt be stuffing his face constantly with rich foods, so there was really no reason for Rory to starve himself in sympathy. What she will tell him in a month's time, when his brother is stumbling around the arena, half-crazed with hunger, like she has seen too many tributes from 12 do before, she has no idea.

But no, it will never come to that. Gale is surely much too resourceful to let himself starve to death.

The heavier bag, containing a fat beaver that had miraculously swum right into one of Gale's crafty traps, falls clumsily from her shoulder yet again. Katniss swears out loud, and stops to swipe the sweat off her brow. It's hot. Early summer sunshine has dominated the weather since yesterday and the temperature seems to be rising steadily.

She sighs deeply and swings both sacks back over her shoulders for the last part of the walk home. The second part of the problem, she thinks, is the feeling of loneliness that is suddenly haunting her out here. Before, if Gale had fallen ill or somehow couldn't make it out to hunt with her, she had never thought much about it, just continued on in the practised pattern that she had long since developed. Now, she feels uneasy more often than not, like she has constantly forgotten something or like something is off about the place. Not that it is –the woods are bursting with life this time of year, and bringing down wild animals is a breeze compared to wintertime– but she still can't seem to find the same peace as usual.

She blames his completely uncalled for last action on Reaping Day, in that small room where they met to say goodbye. Seeing him off wouldn't have had to be such a… _physical_ affair, would it? But he had kissed her, and now she will never be able to think of him quite the same ever again. The familiar picture she has of Gale, as her trustworthy best friend, charming when he wants to be but mostly just someone she can make fun of to no end, is mixed up with the memory of his burning gaze when he looked at her afterwards. In that new version, he's probably someone who could render her tongue-tied and pink-cheeked, and she's not quite comfortable with that fact. It conflicts wildly with her notion of her own person.

On the other hand, she would be lying to herself if she were to say that she is entirely surprised. In the spur of the moment, yes, she was. But when she lets her mind go there, she knows she has always been aware, in the furthest back corner of her mind, of the possibility that there might be something more between them… She would catch his gaze lingering on her for one split second too long every now and then, would notice the warmth of his skin a little too keenly in moments when they were huddled together. And earlier the spring, when they had been drenched after a sudden downpour and had to hang their clothes out to dry by the fire before heading back home, that had been a rather tense situation.

All in all, she had _known_, but she had refused to acknowledge anything other than a close friendship. With just one quick kiss, the illusion has suddenly shattered, and Katniss can't help but wonder, much too often, what it could have meant. Was it an act on impulse, or something he had planned to do eventually? Like any other time when the thought hits her, she shoves it away before any theories can form in her mind.

_Focus_ – dinner, breakfast, supplies, survive.

Much later then she would have liked, Katniss finally pushes the two game bags trough the glitch in the tall metal fence that surrounds the district, before crawling inside herself. Inside of 12, but outside of the woods, she thinks with a heavy sigh. As much as she dislikes the new uneasy feeling she keeps getting in the forest, she absolute loathes the atmosphere in here- tense, crawling with worry, and recently, eyes following her wherever she goes. The last two days in school have been pure agony, what with the way people who have never so much as glanced her way are suddenly turning their heads her way, lowering their voices when they talk of her as if she can't tell that's what they're doing. Even worse are possibly the other sort, the ones who suddenly feel the urge to come up and talk to her, offer a few words of sympathy or even a touch meant to be comforting. Since their eyes show her only pity, and sometimes a false kind of glee, she wishes they would stop. If she followed her instinct, she would take of the majority of her anger on them right then and there, but she knows she needs to keep her calm. For Gale, this pretend friendliness could prove useful further on.

More disconcerting than all the other kids at school however, is one boy in particular. Whenever she looks up, or over her shoulder, his eyes are suddenly there, staring back into hers for a split second before darting away carefully. Katniss knows him from a quick moment a long, long time ago –his clear blue eyes burned into her memory forever- but has never spoken a word to him. She can't figure out what he could possibly want with her. His eyes seem honest enough, she can sort of tell, but there's too much sympathy in them for her to stomach it, and so she does her best to ignore him.

When she reaches the house where Gale and his family of four live, where she and him would usually part ways after trading their day's catch at the Hob, darkness is steadily falling around her. Through the scant, often non-existent windowpanes in the Seam, she can see the flickering of old televisions piercing the stretching shadows; hear the muted tunes of the Capitol anthem played through multiple speakers all at once. Television sets are subsidized goods here in 12, and only the poorest of the poor are forces to head up to the large screens of the town square in lack of their own. Usually, there's quite a crowd there anyway, especially at the opening events and towards the end of the Games, but Katniss usually avoids it as best she can.

When she is just about to reach her elbow out to shove through the front door, it swings open before her. In contrast to the air outside, which is growing colder by the moment as dusk closes in, inside it's warm and cosy, and surprisingly, full of people. The smell of roasted rabbit and the chatter of adults and kids alike assault her senses as insistent arms sweep her inside.

"Oh Katniss dear, we were just worrying about you making it home for dinner," prattles Hazelle, Gale's mother. She continues talking in her vibrant but light-toned way, as she help Katniss set down the sacks, removes her jacket and swats her hand away when they try to help with carrying the day's load over to the kitchen. "No need to push your luck by staying out so long, you know, we'll all get on just fine without you breaking your poor back over us. And on such a night like this, when you know they're watching us closely."

The Games are mandatory watching for certain hours, and this evening- the opening ceremony- is definitely among those. Hazelle is right that it would be beyond stupid to linger outside any later, since the Peacekeeper will be sure to patrol town right now, make sure the monstrosity on television will escape no one. So without another word, Katniss pulls her hunting boots off, accepts a bowl of thin but steaming hot stew and goes to sit on the floor in front of the TV. As it turns out, her mother and sister have come over for the evening too. Perhaps it's an act of sympathy, or perhaps they felt the need to, because quite simply, the only way to get through these next few weeks is for them all to stick closely together. And also, it seems that the only person who can calm Rory from his hysterical guilt is the thoroughly sweet and kind-hearted Prim.

Currently, she is nestled tight between him and his little brother, with little Posy jumping back and forth between their laps.

"Hi," says Prim with a smile as her sister folds her legs down on the scrubbed floorboards. "Are you nervous?" Her eyes shine with worry, and Katniss knows that at least part of it is for her sake.

She smiles back tightly. "No," she answers, "not at all." But her calm confidence is more for show than it's real.

"I just hope they dress them better than those poor kids last year," sighs Prim, wrinkling her nose at the memory. "Coal dust in itself is really not very nice."

"Let's all hold out thumbs for that," comments Hazelle, with a disapproving look on her face. She would certainly rather not see her son paraded naked through the Capitol.

The small, rugged couch is crammed already with the four kids occupying it, and there are only two wooden chairs in the room, but Katniss doesn't mind the floor. She leans her back against her sister's legs and begins to shove stew into her mouth. After the day's exhaustion, there's no such thing as eating slowly.

The small talk dies down at once when the cameras finally sweep in from the opening panorama shot over the Capitol, with it's million shining light. On the screen, they are showing pictures from above the City Circle, before zooming in closer. The place is vast- a broad, clear space with inlaid stone decorations on the ground that shape out the violent creation of Panem. Before the nation's birth was meant to have been disastrous times, until the people still standing created something new from the ashes of the world. Whatever the veracity of that story, the square is a majestic piece of work.

This evening, the square is lined with temporary galleys, set up all along the alley that cuts across the diameter of the Circle, and every inch is crowded with people. Katniss feels the old cold anger well up inside her by just looking at them, with their ridiculous colourful and outrageously embellished costumes. It's their fault, all of this. Her family has rarely had a proper, full meal in their entire life, and over there, they throw away money like there's no tomorrow. What could bring someone to dye his _skin_ purple?

The voices that tune in on the tiny, crackling speakers of the old TV are familiar- the same as every year, and just as irksome as always. The two commentators are freakishly excited, talking of the Hunger Games as if they are no more than a very exciting sport tournament. Sure, survival is made a sport in there, but how can they cheer over children dying? Katniss leans her head back into her sisters lap, tries to concentrate only on small hands weaving through her hair so that she can tune them out.

She watches the crowds stand up to cheer as the first tribute carriage pulls out to ride down the parade alley. Suddenly her heart picks up pace, and in anxiety, she has trouble swallowing the last spoonful of her dinner, even though her belly is still aching for food. These people are the enemy, she thinks, the people who in just a few day's time will try their best to kill Gale and Madge. And from the looks of the first four of them, they may have a good chance at it. Trained all their lives for this particular event, they are large in build, healthier than any kid she has ever seen in 12, and absolutely fearless. The careers grin victoriously and coolly towards the audience. They're the best, and they know it, and their shiny outfits- laced with sparkling gemstones, gold and silver- makes sure everyone else knows it too.

Out of the next nine carriages passing through the giant doorway, only the odd close-up picture or fleeting image sticks to memory. They were all broadcasted individually only two nights ago, from the Reaping procedure in their hometowns, but it's hard for the onlookers back home to connect those rather bleak footages of scared children with the otherworldly creatures on display now. That is, until the final two tributes manage to completely steal the show.

Darkness is just winning over the last shards of sunlight, and the sky is a blazing inferno, as finally, the last of the carriages roll out on the plaza. There are two large black horses, and then there's _fire. _Katniss, along with everyone else in the tiny living room, draws a sharp intake of breath. The two District 12 tributes are burning with flickering tongues of it, wearing the flames on their backs and in their hair. In the dusky, orange light, they glow brighter than the lights of the city itself.

The entire audience quietens momentarily, their hearts in their throats and their eyes wide in shock, before it registers that the boy and girl on the cart are actually unaffected by the flames. Synthetic fire, the commentators are calling it on television. Then the roaring cheers erupt, louder than for any of the other tributes, the clapping a staccato in the dramatic sunset.

Gale and Madge hold their heads high, looking like regents from another realm in their enflamed headpieces and searing cloaks; king and queen of fire. When the cameras close up a little on the carriage, Katniss finds her eyes transfixed on the shape of her best friend, whom she can barely recognise in that strange costume. He's dressed in black, tight-fitting clothes through which every single line of his body is visible, and it makes him look bigger, more imposing than he normally would. His face is lit up by the flames, defining it, and his eyes glitter with the colour of fire, as it overtakes his usual grey shade. At first, he looks grim, his face set, but as the cart is pulled further into the square, he seems to catch himself. He flashes a bright smile at the audience, raises his hand slowly to wave at them. Instantly, the cheers turn distinctly more high-pitched and female.

At his side, Madge stands with her back straight. Her body, having never seen a day of starvation, fills out the black jumpsuit they've put her in nicely. Her dark yellow hair glows, falls over her shoulders in in ringlets like spun gold, while her eyes gleam with fascination. Tentatively, she too lifts a hand to meet their frantic calls for her attention, touches it to her lips and blows a kiss to the crowds.

That's when Katniss notices that the two tributes are joined by their hands, like a display of unity. Together, both of them tall and well built, they form a striking couple, looking for all the world like a perfect picture of male and female beauty. Something inside her subconscious twists anxiously, a sliver of darkness spiralling up her belly at the sight. She tries to push the dark thought away on once, but like coal dust, it sticks to the inside of her skin. Gale is supposed to be _her _teammate, the nagging voice inside is telling her. But this is good for his popularity as a tribute, her more logic side is countering. Obviously, the Capitolite people love him; they chant his name and throw him flowers, like he's some deity incarnated in flesh before them. If it weren't for the easy charm in his smile, he'd look frightful in his attire, perhaps a restless soul from the underworld come to bring wrathful fire down on earth. In fact, Katniss hopes that is what he intends to do, and that the silent sponsors watching right now recognise this force in him even at this first glance.

They ride down the length of the square, and gather with the other carriages in front of the President Mansion, a giant structure looming over the plaza. Katniss does her best to tune out the droning of President Snow as he holds a speech to the tributes and to the nation. Nothing he has to say could interest her- or should interest her, for that matter. It's all damned lies, or attempts to scare her into submission. They can take her friends away, and there's nothing she can do about it, but she'll be dead before she lets them take her soul. Instead, she watches the last few moments of flickering flames on the District 12 carriage, mesmerized. She sees Gale and Madge glance at each other, a tight squeeze of their clutched hands, and wonders what it means, if it means anything. As far as she knows, they don't know each other any more than by their looks and names, and Gale has always showed signs of almost disliking the mayor's daughter, just like he doesn't trust anyone from town in 12. But then again, the circumstances are bound to have brought them together, since it's just the two of them and their drunken mentor over there.

"He made quite a spectacle of himself, didn't he now?" comments Hazelle, as she rises from her perch on the armrest of the sofa, just when the parade starts to disappear back into the training centre. But Katniss can hear the undercurrent of pride in her curt voice, and she can't help but turn her head around and share a small smile with her sister.

"Gale rocked!" exclaims Vick, the youngest Hawthorne brother, using one of his latest favourite expressions learnt at school. Naturally, he _would_ be impressed with seeing his older brother on TV, even if the circumstances are the worst possible. Everyone has to chuckle a little at his exclamation, the success on screen reflecting back all the way out to this rickety little house in an off part of District 12, about as far away from the Capitol as possible in Panem. Even Rory has to look a little bit less tortured after seeing the Parade, finally realising that perhaps it is better this way, that if anyone from the Seam can be a victor in the Games, it would be Gale.

Katniss goes to sleep that night with a half-empty belly, but with her thoughts swarming pleasantly in a haze of flame-lit images of her best friend. In her dreams, the scenario is always the same, but with constantly changing outcomes. At first, he breaks through a wall of fire whole-skinned and alive, to return back to her and his family on the other side. Next, he jumps the flaming hurdles again and again, but only drifts further and further away from her, an invisible wall of ashes keeping them apart. When in the final dream the blaze rises higher, encompassing the entire sky, and traps him in its white-hot centre, like in the heart of a tornado, she jolts awake with a start. In her stomach is an uneasy sense of foreboding that no measure of logical reasoning can shake, and gone are the jubilant feelings of last night. Sitting in the faint, initial daylight, Katniss knows that nothing comes easy when concerning the Hunger Games. She only wonders what will have to be sacrificed in order for this mess to end well.


	3. A storm is brewing

**A/n: **Since you were all asking so nicely, here's chapter three ;) Originally meant to be just the start of a much longer chapter, but then the word count got a little out of control , so in the end I had to split them up. If this one seems a little eventless… I'll make up for it in the next! Really excited about that one, so I might just go ahead and post it tomorrow...

Here, I'm sort trying to build up an atmosphere, explain who I imagine Katniss to be in this story. A lot of you seem to have already guessed where this is headed, as far as I can tell from the reviews. Thanks a million for those, by the way, I do love every single one, and I try my best to remember to reply!

Now, what do you think will happen next?

* * *

Two more days pass in a tired haze of school and hunting. Summer seems to have come early this year; with the steadily rising temperature, animals keep hidden in their dens and plants wither, and food grows almost as scarce in the woods as it is in the District. The day after the Opening Ceremony, Katniss had spent every minute of daylight scavenging the forest floor for edible plants and for hidey-holes where small animals might have crawled in, even climbed the trees in search for bird eggs to steal. She had come home with a pouch full of strawberries - the last ones in the patch - and a single haggard rabbit, which she had known would fill up maybe three or four of the seven hungry bellies that she had to feed. Thankfully, there had still been some left from the night before, and none of them had to go hungry that night.

Still, the guilt is eating her from inside, the harsh nagging feeling of not being enough refuses to leave her alone. She had promised Gale to look after his family in his absence, and so far, it seems to her that she's doing a lousy job of it. Thus, this morning, the fifth since he was shipped off to the Capitol, Katniss had gone to the Justice Building, lined up with a dozen other kids, most of them bony creatures clad in only rags, and collected a sack of the meagre grain that she can only access by volunteering her name more times for the reaping next year. When she had come, slightly late for school and straining her muscles to carry the heavy, woven bag, her mother had stared at her with strange horror in her eyes.

"You shouldn't have," she had said in an unusually thick voice, lined with a new kind of fear that Katniss had never heard before, despite her years of hunting and breaking all sorts of laws.

"I had to," she had answered sternly, challenging her mother with steady eyes. So far, she has seemed to approve of Katniss supporting their family with grain and meat, and at least in the first few years after the death of her husband, done very little herself to reinforce their income. So why would she suddenly start to act all motherly now? Rationally, just because Gale was forced to be tribute this year, that doesn't mean Katniss is in any greater risk for next year's Reaping than she already was. But it would seem that way, of course. Loss has affected them all with heightened anxiety. She had carried over half the bag of grain to Hazelle's house, and gotten a similar look of disapproval there.

"Don't worry about me," Katniss had assured the other woman, who had been looking at the thin but essential foodstuff with a mixture of relief and hatred. "It'll be fine. The important thing is not to let the kids go hungry, right?"

To her great unease, Hazelle had then met her eyes with her light grey, all-knowing ones, and seen right through her the way her son always would, but even worse.

"The important thing is not to worry yourself to death, Katniss," she had told her evenly, obviously talking from own experience. "Remember that. All your efforts will be in vain, if they hurt you more than they do others good."

A mother's good advice, the kind she had rarely gotten from her own, and not something to be disregarded easily, so she had nodded her head and smiled a tight-lipped little smile to ensure she'd heard them.

* * *

But Katniss wakes up every morning and goes to bed each night with the constant churning of stress in her stomach, and there are no calming words in the world that can change that. She is driven constantly on and on by a sense of purpose that makes her strong, and by a soaring, fluttering feeling of hope that swells in her chest whenever she lets herself think that soon, Gale will be home again, and then everything will finally be like it was always supposed to. On the long walks through the woods, to the water sources where she knows she will find at least something small to shoot, the memory of his gentle caress over her arms, his warm lips on hers, is on a loop, playing over and over again in her mind. Soon, other pictures turn up to keep it company, glimpses of a possible future that she has never envisioned before, but which she now can't keep from popping up. In her mind, it will always be the two of them together, but maybe, after he is home again and now that everything has changed, they will be not just best friends, but much more. The details are blurry, as she won't really let herself linger on them, but all in all, thoughts of the future are suddenly hopelessly blurred with thoughts of strong embrace to hold her, of another heart beating in tune with hers.

As long as it keeps her going, keeps her optimistic even though she knows what is about to happen on television before long, she allows herself the indulgence of these thoughts. She may have become weak, she thinks, but these are times that call for desperate measures.

Meanwhile, the person occupying her thoughts spends his days in a vast, circular room in the Capitol Training Centre, acquiring whatever skills he can before the Games begin. They show short clips of it on TV in two evenings after the initial parade, and Gale appears in them quite a bit, as apparently he's quickly become the Capitol's favourite tribute, with his looks and headstrong ways. Katniss and her family watch the broadcasting along with the Hawthornes each night at their house, just like the first evening. They see Gale in short excerpts, practising spear-throwing and wielding close-combat weapons, while the commentators remark that he seems inexperienced with fighting, but clever enough to figure out the basics. They would still bet on him in a fight, they say, against most of the other tributes. Most of them, that is. Katniss tries not to let her thought linger on the biggest threats among the children in the Training Centre. The two tributes from District 2 look like they could eat other children for breakfast, or at least kill without a second thought. Pure machines, trained all their lives for this moment. And there's a huge, imposing guy from Eleven, who could probably give Gale a good run for his money. Katniss instantly distrusts him.

She notices that her best friend steers clear of everything that she knows he's actually good at, most prominently archery and traps. It's no doubt a calculated tactic, not letting the other tributes in on his talents, but she worries a little that is will make him seem weak in the eyes of the sponsors. Unlike that huge guy from 11, Gale is not exceptionally strong, but more of a lean built, not exactly intimidating by showing off his good knowledge of plants and tracking. What she can't figure out at all, is why he and Madge are by each other's side every single minute of training, at least what they can see on TV. Have they formed some sort of alliance just because they're from the same district? Have they suddenly become such good friends that they want to cooperate in these preparations? From Gale's point of view, it doesn't make sense - there's most likely nothing Madge can teach him that will help him here. As far as Katniss can tell, the girl's got manners and she's got looks, but what else? It's not exactly an alliance to comfort her of his enhanced chances. But then again, she reminds herself that she has to trust him. Gale must have a plan, he's much too shrewd not to, much too strategic and practical in his thinking to leave anything to chance.

The next day, she has to be up extra early to go hunting in the morning. Today marks the start of her second last year in school, and by now, she is considered old enough to learn the specifics of the District industry. Katniss hates the coal mines more than anything in the world, so she's determined to find some other way of supporting herself and her family once school is finished. Despite everything, work in the mines is something you sign up for voluntarily, even if for most people from the Seam, it's the only option. One day, it might be for her too, but she's terrified of dying deep down in the dark, meeting the same destiny as her father once did. All kids in school have to go through the motions of education about mining, either way. In the final year, those who know they'll have no choice but to sign up once they've graduated can apply for a special training program, where they are assigned to a crew and begin work a few days a week, without the salary. Katniss runs into two of Gale's friends, who are both enrolled in that training year, at lunch outside the school cafeteria.

"Hi," says one of them, whose name she can't remember, stopping to talk to her even though they've never exchanged words ever before, just know each other by the look.

"Um, hi," she replies, unsure if she wants to talk to these two, but thinking it might be okay, since they're not looking at her with uncalled for pity, like the rest of the kids in school. She realises that they must be worried too, which makes her feel a lot better about them.

"Katniss, right?" the boy, who she now recalls might be called Thom, asks her.

She nods, still sceptic about their intentions.

"Well, we just wanted to let you know that, you know, you're not alone in this. We're on his side, too, and I think most of the District is determined to see him home. You know, among the miner, there's talk of…"

Katniss listens more intently, and bends her head forward to hear better what the boy is saying, as he has lowered his voice cautiously. But his friend, taller and with deeper lines of worry on his face, shoves an elbow into his side, and gives a minute shake of his head, his eyes darting around the corridor nervously. Then he focuses on her again, and speaks up in the other boy's place.

"What we're saying is, if you ever need anything, don't hesitate to ask." Seeing her distrustful frown, he goes on: "We may not have much, just like anyone here, but we'll do anything we can. Okay?"

She looks back and forth between the two young men, both seemingly hard working and tough already, just like she and Gale, and decides to make a careful assessment that they're not lying, or trying to mess with her.

"All right," she says, nodding once again. "Thanks." Without further ado, she walks past them into the cafeteria, with her hard heel of bread made of ground grains that she's got for lunch, and sits down at the end of a bench by herself.

After a long and tiring afternoon, during which she has to sit through a five-hour introduction on the practical details of tunnelling underground, she drags her tired legs over to Hazelle's house just in time for the broadcasting of the pre-game scores. Each tribute has had an individual performance in front of the Gamemakers, and has been given a score between one and twelve, depending on their perceived chances of survival. It's completely perverse, but Katniss can't help but feeling excited about the announcements. If Gale has thought of some clever plan to impress the judges, she will know from his score, and then she's hoping she might just feel a little less tense about the whole situation, at least for now.

By eight o'clock sharp, she has calmed her belly with a bowl of hot grain and vegetable broth, and is sitting in her usual spot on the floor in front of the sofa, eyes transfixed on the TV-screen. The four other kids in the room are debating the outcome, but Katniss almost wants to tell them to shut up already. Their careless talking rubs her the wrong way, and she's still not sure whether or not little Posy has grasped at all why her brother has gone away, or that he may never come home again. But they're just kids, and she's so happy that none of them seem to want for food - not yet - so she leaves them be. When the first picture, the blond girl from One, appears on screen, she gratefully allows Prim to grip her hand tightly, and squeezes it back.

Seeing the tributes one by one like this is almost worse than either the reaping or the parade, since the number flashing beneath it says more than you'd really want to know about their abilities to stay alive. A one, and they'll be dead within a matter of days. An eight, and chances are high they'll kill someone you care about. No matter how hard Katniss tries to stare, remember and reflect, all the faces and numbers quickly turn into a single blur of fear and pity. There's a boy from Three and a girl from Eleven who both look to be no older than twelve, and at seeing them, Katniss looks over her shoulder at Rory's thin figure, catching his eye to say _look at them, that would have been you. It would have been disastrous. _

Finally, the face popping into view before them is familiar. Madge looks serene and regal in her newly taken picture, juts her chin out confidently and smiles a pretty smile, despite the fact that she must know her chances are slim in the Games. In training, she has only showed any skills in healing wounds, plus a certain agility in dodging hits. So when the number six flashes under her face, it's impressive enough to surprise them.

"I wonder what she did," muses Prim, but the rest of them can only shake their heads and wonder, too.

Then the girl's picture fades away to be replaced with one of her district partner. Gale is portrayed slightly from the side in a flattering angle, his lips stretched into a grin and his eyes alight. More than anything, he looks like someone you'd want to know, would want to laugh with, and Katniss wonders, amused, what possessed him to be so friendly in a place where he most likely hates everyone. His normal, rather angsty and angry self is nowhere to be found in that picture, which makes him seem charming, kind of flirty even, like he would sometimes act in school around girls when he thought she wasn't watching. It also makes him seem different from the Gale she knows so well, as if the Capitol has already begun transforming him into someone they want him to be. But a few seconds later, her troubled thoughts are interrupted at once, when his score shows up.

_Eleven. _In bold, black letters, the second highest possible scoring blazes on the screen, impossible to ignore. A strange mixture of jubilant feelings and lack of surprise fills her up, and her only reaction is a low mumbled _yes_ and a knowing smile, while the other people in the room erupt in triumphant shouts. She hears a comment from the TV along the lines of _on fire, indeed_, and sends a silent thanks to Gale, all the way across the nation to where he is, for not letting her down this time either. She swears all over again that she won't, either, and resolves to make an extra effort with hunting tomorrow, to find them some proper food again before the really dreadful form of entertainment begins in front of their helpless eyes. I goes without saying that once he's shut up inside the Arena, their lives will be infinitely more difficult, under the constant pressure of wondering if he'll still be alive next minute, or not.

For now, there are strawberries and mint tea enough for everyone, and even Katniss takes a little break from worrying to enjoy the momentary respite. She lets herself laugh along with the rest of them when Hazelle goes on to tell stories of Gale as a little kid, constantly making life difficult for her and her husband with ingenious pranks, too stubborn and independent for his own good already back then.

* * *

"I hate thunder," sighs Prim, inclining her eyes towards the dark, looming skies overhead. Katniss only grunts indifferently in response, keeping her eyes on the gravel road in front of them to check where Prim puts her feet. She's always rather liked thunderstorms herself, never feared them. The intense grey of the sky, right before letting loose the rumbling, electric forces of nature, looks just like how she remember the colour of her father's eyes. Like her own ones, she supposes. She finds herself thinking that in contrast, Gale's eyes are a light grey, more like the soft cloudy cover above during a persistent rainfall.

Jeez, since when does she go around wasting brain capacity on analysing the colour of eyes? Even if they're his, and they're her favourite thing to look at in all the world… No, she forces her brain to comply; her favourite sight in the entire world is most definitely food on the table. Nothing else.

Katniss blows a strand of hair come loose out of her eyes, heaves the bundle under her left arm a little higher up. Her right one is gripping one of the handles of a heavy earthenware pot full of stew that her mother has spent the afternoon cooking. Hazelle had called over early in the morning, saying she had gotten a chance to work a couple of extra hours this evening, asking if they could possibly return the favour of making dinner for both families. Over the past week, they have all started to cooperate like one big family instead of two separate entities, for convenience and support. Possibly, her mother had known that Katniss would want to be there for Gale's younger siblings all through this time, and decided to put her whole heart into it as well. As for Prim, well, she didn't even seem to reflect on the matter, but is rather just doing what is _right_, like always.

The last couple of days, since the announcement of the tribute scoring, had passed without incidents. By putting in an extra load of effort, Katniss had come home with enough catches from the forest that it fed them all and got their households a restocking of supplies that they badly needed, like salt and cooking oil. Relieved, Katniss had slept better that night than she had since Gale was taken away, even if she was extremely embarrassed to say she had imagined him there with her in bed; his long body folded perfectly around her. She had woken up clutching her pillow for dear life, before throwing it across the room, disgusted with her own lack of self-discipline. What had the stress of this past week done with her? And how will she continue to deteriorate over the next few weeks - starting tomorrow with the actual Games? Damn him, she thinks for maybe the thousandth time in just seven days, for making this so much harder for her than it would have otherwise been, by infecting her brain with the soft, distracting fever of _kisses_ and _aching_.

Yes, tomorrow it all begins, but tonight there's still the last preparation to be broadcasted out to the entire nation; the grand _finale _that is individual interviews with each tribute. In honour of the occasion, the weather seems to have decided to finally break its unrelenting tension that's been heavy in the air all week, and cumulate in a grand clash of thunder and lightning. Katniss really wishes it would, since the heat preceding a giant bout of bad weather has been hanging like a dense rug over her head for far too long, made her unfocused and set as well her as the forest animals on edge. Hunting has been almost all about searching for prey, and it's been exhausting.

Just as Katniss and Prim carries their dinner over the threshold to the Hawthornes' home, they can hear the distant roar of thunder beginning to roll in over Twelve. It's still early evening, the schools and mines closed early for the day, but already unnaturally dark outside. Prim shudders, and quickly skips the last couple of steps fully into the house, across the small room to curl up tight between Rory and his sister on the couch. Katniss lingers for a moment in the doorway to hold up the door for her mother, who's equally anxious with the bad weather, to pass in.

She stares up at the dark skies, caught in between the tense darkness outside and the warmth and bright lights inside, can feel the little hairs on her arms stand up from static electricity, and the wind pick up to blow the scent of dirt and smoke into her nostrils. It's ominous weather, really, as if nature is trying to tell her there are bad times ahead. She already knows that, though, so she only tries her best to shake the feeling, closes the door tightly to shut out the storm, and walks over to join her mother and Hazelle in the kitchen. However, she can't shake the queasy feeling that something is about to go terribly wrong.

If only she knew.


	4. Wind of changes

**A/n: **As promised - new day, new chapter. Are you excited? I am, even though you're probably all going to hate me after this. Just remember it's all part of a greater plan...

Oh, and I'd be lying if I said no pun intended with the chapter title.

* * *

Katniss watches with her heart in her throat as Gale enters the stage, last in the line but yet the only one in her line of vision. With single-minded obsession, she notices every little detail of his appearance. How have they changed him already, before the whole ordeal of killing and starvation has even begun?

His hair is a little longer and shinier, tamed and carefully laid in a style that controversially suggests he cares not a whit about it. Only someone who knew him would know he didn't just come out of a gust of wind, or a fight, looking like that. His face is prettied up only a little, smoothed out to cover a few premature worry wrinkles that Katniss knows should be visible. But apart from that, his eyes are his own deep grey, his features unblemished by make-up or colours. It takes her a moment to realise what he's wearing, only because at first, she does not react to it. They've put him in a soft cotton work shirt, a washed out beige colour without flourish or flare, that looks like a perfect copy of clothes he wears every day, hand-me-downs from his father. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and one button is left undone, just like always.

Katniss stares in fascination, and feels her heart clench longingly against her will. He's not some overworked Capitol version of Gale, or boosting some obvious angle, like some of the other tributes. He's himself - no more and no less. _Her_ Gale.

"I want Gale to be here," pouts his little sister, her tiny face set in a deep frown and her clear grey eyes sad like only a child can be. "Not in the stupid television," she continues in her high, sing-song voice. For a four-year old, Posy talks unbelievably well, but thankfully does not grasp the full implication of her beloved brother being showed on the TV-screen.

Katniss has been granted a seat on the sofa this time, squeezed in between the other two girls, while Rory is taking up the spot on the floor instead. Posy leans her curly head against Katniss' arm, and she can't help but to lean her cheek against the younger girl's hair and mumble in return, hopefully too low for any one else in the room to hear:

"I know, Posy. I do too."

If he were here, she would clutch him so close that no one could ever… Katniss stops herself with a start. What is she thinking? It must be the sheer relief of seeing him alive and looking well on the TV that is playing tricks with her mind, surely. She can understand without trouble what they are trying to pull off by giving him a natural look. It's genius really, letting the audience see how no fire, synthetic or real, could ever be as intense as the fire burning naturally inside him, in his spirit and eyes. The stubborn set of his jaw and the watchful edge to his scanning gaze, the straight stance in his muscular shoulders, are all signs of the fact that he won't go down easily. Add to that a handsome enough face, and Gale doesn't need a fancy outfit to stand out among the tributes for these interviews. Katniss is very pleased that his stylist has realised as much.

Once again, she is forced to sit through the painful review of all the other tributes, these kids soon to be competing to death for the sole prize of retaining their life. She wonders how Gale is stomaching it, if he can even sleep while knowing they will all have to die in order for him to survive. She frowns deeply at the thought, thinking that this year everything about the Games feels so much more personal, now that she has a stake in its outcome. These children are not her friends, and they're not her problem, but she feels strangely guilty for them, for wishing them all dead with inevitable certainty.

Most of them are easy enough to disregard, either too done up in their outfits to look completely human, or too stuck up in their quest for glory to be considered worthy of any compassion. It's the ones that come across as _normal people_ that are really troubling. There's a boy who looks scared out of his wits, talking only about home despite the interviewer's best efforts to steer him off the tragic subject. Then there's a small girl, dressed like an angelic creature in white gossamer wings, who floats up to the podium and straight into Katniss heart with her resemblance to her precious sister. Prim turns her head to look at her when she feels the squeeze of her hand, and their eyes meet in sad helplessness. At least they still have each other.

The girls of each district go before their male counterparts, so when the turn comes at last to Twelve, it's Madge who takes the stage first. She looks absolutely gorgeous in a full-length dress of some shiny, white-yellow material, inlaid with orange and pale red gemstone towards the hem that sparkle brightly in the stage lights. When she confidentially walks up to take the centre of the stage, flickers run up the length of the dress like illusions of fire, or glowing coals at its very centre, as dangerous as it is alluring. A thin golden circlet is holding back her yellow hair from her forehead, and altogether, she looks royal; like a goddess of fire again, just like in the opening ceremony. Probably, her stylist wanted to make sure no one can forget where she comes from, that money and influence run deep in her blood and will not be ignored. It'll get her sponsors, for sure. Beauty and a respectable background always do, at least for the careers. Could she possibly _mean_ to come off like one of them? For someone from District 12, that's a rather bold move, since it means being instantly disliked by everyone back home.

Caesar Flickerman, the ever-present host of the tribute interviews each year, pretends to faint at the very sight of her, eliciting a second round of applause for Madge as he comments on her striking appearance.

"Oh my goodness- or I mean, goddess, is it, perhaps?" he blabbers, and the blond girl smiles indulgently, but holds her head slightly too high, fixes him with her stare slightly too self-assuredly for it to seem like she's really going along with his nonsense.

"You could always pray for my goodness, I suppose," she answers with a smirk, keeping her large green eyes fixed on her host. Through the lens of the multiple cameras, she is aloof, regarding the scene before her and the audience from another level of consciousness and wisdom.

Caesar, in turn, straightens a little in his seat, raises an eyebrow at her as if to say _if you want to play it that way, sure_. In his usual resourceful way, he turns more serious, less over-the-top, to match her persona better. He asks her questions about the Capitol, about her life back home, about her potential secret weapons to win the Games. Through it all, she comes off as clever, never missing a beat when it comes to well-measured answers and chances to win the audience over. There's also a certain aura of mystery around her, a pronounced but unidentifiable edge to her smile and her words that hint at things unsaid. It makes the onlooker hang at her every breath, puzzle over the true meaning of each soft-spoken sentence out of her mouth, and it makes her impossible to forget. When she finishes the interview by standing up and letting go of her secretive mask for a second, to swirl around girlishly in her long gown, she has them all won over. The dress sparkles like unearthly flames, and Madge is glowing like pure gold from within when she finally strides off stage, her pleased little smirk still in place.

Katniss has to relent that she is mightily impressed by her sort-of friend. She's sure part of it, at least, must have been acting, but still, where has that glowing girl been hiding within Madge's normal, rather dull persona in school? Perhaps she's been doing just that; _hiding._ She never seemed like the kind of girl to be unable to make friends – she just didn't want any of them. From the few times the two girls have actually spoken to each other, Katniss has picked up on a calm, matter-of-fact sort of mind, slightly absorbed in her own thoughts, but always very much aware of everything going on around her. Suddenly, she feels her chest constrict painfully at the thought of this girl dying, her brilliance wasted for some ancient purpose of revenge. They could have been great friends.

But then the atmosphere in the little all-purpose room in the Seam tenses, and she feels Prim's body stiffen against her own. Rory sits up straight from his prior slouch on the floor, and she can hear Hazelle drumming her finger together in a restless gesture. Outside, a clash of thunder – by now passing close enough for discomfort – crackles loudly and then rumbles in a slow, deep aftermath, resonating through her whole body long after it's over. Against the windowpanes, a furious clatter of rain begins suddenly, loud enough for Rory to reach over to the television and adjust the volume up.

Just in time, too.

"Now, ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our last, but certainly not least _fiery_, tribute for this evening- Gale Hawthorne!"

The cheering from the audience is predominantly female and shrill, and Katniss can't help but to grin at how much her best friend would scowl at that, were he his normal self. If he feels any discomfort now, he's not showing it, but fires off the odd smile as he nods his head to the galleries on his way up. Quite contrary, he looks as comfortable in his own skin as ever, radiating confidence as he shakes Caesar's hand and sits down on the stool in the centre of the stage. Katniss is absolutely certain that if it were her, she would be shaking like a leaf and stutter like an idiot.

The Capitol host starts off with some light chatter, cracking a joke about how it suddenly got _hot_ in here ("right, ladies?"), and Gale flashes a rather stretched smile while waiting for the shrieks die down again, reaches up to scratch at his neck the way he always does when feeling the slightest bit uncomfortable. Caesar notices, and switches the subject.

"So, let's talk about that scoring. Eleven, huh?" he says empathically, stressing the last sentence to bring another round of reactions from the crowd.

Gale only grins, smugly twitching his eyebrows. "Well, there's still some room for improvement there."

The blue-haired host laughs outrageously, clasping his shoulder, and asks him for details that he isn't granted.

"I don't think I'm supposed to tell," says Gale, clearly enjoying getting to keep secrets.

"Oh, just freaking spill the beans already," mutters Katniss, and gets an approving grunt from his mother, who looks just as annoyed as she is over not knowing.

On the TV, they can only see a man in the audience, wearing the ridiculous long robe of the Gamemakers, furiously shaking his head with a bashful expression.

"Alright, alright," Caesar cuts in, "we'll let you keep your secret tricks, for now. Let's step this up a few notches, and talk about that day at the Reaping instead…"

Gale's face only barely changes, takes on a slightly harder edge. Back home, Rory squirms and stares up in the ceiling, but Katniss can't help but think that this is necessary. Talking about that day will certainly bring out his most fierce and fiery side, the one that the people watching need to see.

"Gale, I will never forget that moment when you volunteered for you little brother; I think we were all quite touched. Can you tell us about him?"

Sure enough, there's a long moment when his eyes glaze over with heat, and he tenses up in anger barely contained. Gale crosses his arms defensively across his chest, all his angles and muscles jutting out in the right tone of defiance, and stares Caesar right in the eyes.

"His name is Rory," he says eventually, through gritted teeth. "He's only twelve."

The auditorium has fallen silent, every eye in Panem focused and hanging by his words.

"And," he continues, "if anyone - _anyone_, ever tried to lay so much as a finger on him, I would end them."

The cold fire burns in his steely eyes, and a collective shudder visibly passes through the audience, but Katniss only smiles, pleased. Sure, it's a bit risky to insinuate taking down the Capitol if they ever tried to pick out Rory for the Games again, but she can't help but like this piece of the old Gale coming through all the way from that stage.

Caesar clears his throat, and his eyes flicker nervously once back and forth between cameras before he focuses Gale with a charming smile again.

"So, one last question, Gale." His grin stretches meaningfully. "A handsome young man like you, the girls back home must be rather taken? They sure are here, anyway…"

Katniss rolls her eyes at the thought of every single girl in the District sitting up straight in attention, wishing for a wild declaration of endless love. Gale would never do such a thing, and besides… No, no, she won't go there.

Gale loses a little bit of his normal self-assured attitude, and sits up a little straighter, runs a hand through his hair while clearing his throat and smiling quickly, in the passing.

"You mean except for my baby sister?"

Beside her on the couch, Posy bounces excitedly up and down, squealing happily and looking extremely pleased with her big brother. Caesar laughs aloud, but won't let the subject drop.

"Yes, more like, a special someone?" he presses on, a knowing glitter in his overly vivid blue eyes. "Perhaps that girl we saw you unable to take your eyes off at the Reaping…?"

Katniss has the good sense to blush, but tries her best to glare and ignore the teetering, snide chuckles around her in the cramped living room. She refuses to acknowledge how she's really hanging by the admission unfolding on that stage, how her heart has suddenly picked up pace and is swelling with an unquenchable sense of hope.

Gale coughs out a very unintended choke masked as a laugh, and for a split second, there's a flash of something in his eyes, too fast to catch the meaning of, except that it's something dark… Then he regains control over his face, and there's an uncharacteristically soft smile adorning his features.

"Well, that's easy. There's only one girl for me." Gale's neck is bent solemnly to the floor, his eyes no longer strictly controlled as the words slowly tumble out of him. In them, clouds gather and disperse all at the same time.

Katniss doesn't know whether to stare straight at him, or flick her eyes around the room fretfully. Surely he's not… Not on television?

He continues: "But I've always acted the wrong way around her, as long as we've known each other." His voice is remorseful, and he looks almost nervous, a very strange expression on his handsome face.

What does he mean by that? Around her, there are knowing little titters, and she can hear Rory snort a sniggering laugh, before he receives a smack on the arm from Prim to shut him up.

Caesar gives him a sympathetic eye, and says reassuringly, "Well, my boy, I tell you what. You win this, and then when you come home, how could she possibly resist you?"

The audience swoons in one voice, and her little sister giggles, but Katniss barely hears them, as her mind fills with nothing but him, and the thought of him coming back here. She has just enough time to think that perhaps, _when_ he comes home, she might just him kiss her again, before…

His face scrunched up in something that could be interpreted as anguish, Gale says in a low voice; "I don't think winning would help me there, Caesar."

"Why ever not?" The television host has the look of one big, exaggerated, blue question mark.

"Because…" Gale draws in a deep breath, and tears his gaze up to stare straight at the other man on stage. His eyes are strangely detached. "Because… she came here with me."

The silence in the centre square of the Capitol matches the absolute stillness in the living room back in Twelve, where the two families gathered together freeze. Surprise widens their eyes almost comically, but Katniss doesn't notice any of it, feels only her blood rushing to colour every inch of her skin, and her perception of the world in freefall.

With confusion, she stares at her dear friend up there on the stage, miles away suddenly in spirit as well as in physical distance. The cameras linger on him long enough to show him close his eyes and straighten out an insistent tiny crinkle in his brows, before it snaps over to display Madge. The blond girl's reaction is prime television material - the way she starts violently at hearing the words, and how gradually, her face melts from unbelieving surprise to wonder. A perfect rosy blush spreads across her fine cheekbones, and her golden green eyes swim with unhindered emotion, and overall, she's a perfect picture as she looks over to Gale like she's seeing the sun rising after the longest of nights.

Katniss wishes heatedly that she were alone in the room right this moment, not so much in order to react in whatever way she would like to, but more for a chance to escape the sudden tense atmosphere. The air is thick with the fact that they all _know_ what's wrong but pretend not to, their eyes trained pointedly on anything but her, frozen in place on the lumpy old couch. She tries to hide her suddenly furiously red cheeks behind a curtain of thick hair that has fallen out of her braid, but to no success. Through the fingers of her hand held up to fidget with her eyebrows, she watches the stirring on screen as all the tributes stand and Caesar Flickerman tries to regain control over his show, while the cameras are still very much favouring shots of Gale walking back to stand at Madge's side, and how her eyes are still hopelessly glued to his face, like she has forgotten anything else exists in the whole world. Gale stares fixedly on the floor in front of him, his eyes unfocused, with a rather solemn look on his face. He doesn't let another thought show on the outside, but Katniss can see the muscles in his jaw flex and uncurl over and over. The tributes stand honour for the anthem, and then troop out in reverse order, while the audience cheer and clap fervently.

On the television, the volume naturally quietens as they switch over to the Game Studio, and to the giddy commentators ready to tear into every single movement and comment made by each of the tributes. Hazelle firmly walks up to shut off the old device, which goes dark with a loud zip. Instead, the smattering of rain against the windows and on the roof seems to increase in volume, becomes a thundering roar.

"Kids, bedtime," she announces in that voice of hers that can't be contradicted. They complain in murmurs, but it seems to be a habit more than anything, because then they all collectively shuffle off the couch, over to the sink or the chest of drawers that hold their nightclothes.

Katniss keeps her head down while getting up too, and walks over to the door along with her mother and sister, who are uncharacteristically silent here, where they are technically guests and would normally keep up a pleasant chatter.

Her mother gets a hug from Hazelle, who's thanking her for dinner, and opens the door for them to step out in the humid darkness. Walking home will be an unpleasant affair, but they can't stay, either. Before Katniss can follow, Gale's mother holds her back by squeezing her hand, and pulls her close to whisper in her ear;

"Don't believe anything you see or hear from that place, Katniss."

In return, Katniss only frowns and averts her gaze, nodding once without putting any weight behind it. She knows that the Capitol is a false place and the Games little more than one long pre-scripted play. But she also knows that's exactly the kind of thing, the kind of place, that changes people.

The whole way home, she can barely feel the impact of icy rain and wind tugging at her hair, just folds her arms against the storm and lets the water rush over her face to wash away the redness in her cheeks. Her mind is blank and numb, an empty white sheet, except for one single phrase, words that are brandished forever inside:

_There's only one girl for me. _

And it's not her.

* * *

**A/n 2: ... **Soo, yeah, even critical reviews are good ones! And if it makes you feel any better, I had a bad dream that my boyfriend broke up with me last night... ;)


	5. Goes around, comes around

**A/N:** Soo, that turn of events didn't seem to surprise anyone really, but still managed to stir up some discontentment with poor Gale. If you hadn't already guessed, this story will stick pretty closely to the events in the book, for now at least. Maybe Katniss does deserve a good dose of her own medicine? ;)

Thanks for the amazingly kind reviews! They have payed off since now, on popular demand... here's a sneak peak into another mind than Katniss'...

* * *

From the top of a tall building, miles and miles away from where Katniss is currently trudging home through the shabby streets of Twelve, there's not a single cloud in sight. The sky stretches out endlessly in all directions, scattered by a million stars that glitter with a dimmed glow, outshone by the lights of the city beneath.

In the eyes of the boy standing on the roof of that high tower, where he is held captive, the stars look strange and unnatural in their muted light. He has stared at them for a good long while now, but they only seem to keep getting farther away the more he looks, as the night closes in and the artificial splendour of the Capitol grows brighter and brighter instead. At first, he had thought that if he stared hard enough at the horizon, surely he would get a glimpse of what lies beyond - could look past the craggy hills that surrounds the Capitol area and see them flatten out into the softer mountain ridge of his homelands. But of course, the realms of Panem are too vast, and he did travel here a full day and night on a high-speed train, farther away than he could have ever imagined possible before.

Gale has a hard time admitting it to himself, but for the first time in his life, he is homesick. He is tired to his bones from the long day and from too many sleepless nights in a row, during which he has lay awake for hours on end, meticulously planning every minute of the days to come. After all, if he's not careful enough, they may be the last ones of his life. There's no scenario too unthinkable, no probability to feint for him to disregard it, as the instinct for survival is deeply ingrained in him. From the first day, he has known that the key to the Games is not to be forced to play by anyone else's rules, but to set the stage yourself. And Gale knows he is a good player, has a mind intricate and stubborn enough to form his own destiny, create his own rules in this living hell of a place, if he can only keep himself in check. So he has planned, and he has conspired, and he has cringed inwardly at his own apparently vague morale, and standing here in the warm and still nighttime air, he thinks that he can do it.

The only issue is, if he succeeds, what then?

Back home, _she_ had told him to do whatever it takes, but how honestly had she meant it? He's pretty sure his best friend had thought she was talking about death and blood and hunger, but still, he feels confident about her ability to read his intentions, even across all this distance. They're hunters, after all. In hunting, nothing is more important than the patience for strategy. He knows she can sit perfectly still for hours on end, waiting for prey to step into a carefully baited trap, but for this most important hunt of his life, he's anxious she may have no patience at all.

Either way, he can't let her occupy his mind any more, because he can hear a door squeaking quietly open behind him, hear steps echo across the wooden boards of the roof.

"Gale?"

Her voice is soft, forming around his name in a way that is still foreign after a whole week, but yet sounds as obvious as if she was always meant to say it. He doesn't turn around, keeps his weight leaned on the railing and his eyes on the horizon. But when she comes to stand beside him, timid in a way that you would never guess from her assured ways in front of the camera, his face turns sideways to meet hers.

There's a question in them, obviously at the front of her thoughts. She has no idea of what goes on in his mind, but he has no idea of how to tell her either, so instead, he goes back into the practical mood that he has used all week to block out everything else.

"So tomorrow, as soon as the gong sounds, you're out of there, okay?" He searches her eyes, which are still wide and vulnerable after this evening's events. "Do you trust me?" he asks her more softly then.

Madge is silent for a long moment, looking into his eyes with her striking green ones, like precious stones inlaid in her delicate features. Then she nods slowly, and the uncertain mist lifts from them, to be replaced by clear light. The little smirk that is never long off her face reappears, the one he can never figure out what it means.

"Yes," she answers. "And do you trust me?"

Gale is not surprised by her question, not really – he knows she is smart enough to have something planned as well - but he still can't keep his eyebrows from twitching slightly. He can't really trust her when she smiles that small mysterious smile, but either way, he gives her a curt nod back.

"Good. Then we're all set, I guess," says the blonde girl at his side, turning her own head out to scan the city in all its excited glory. "They won't be seeing us die tomorrow."

He is not surprised by her calm acceptance of their destiny either, since over the last week he has learned there's a lot more to the mayor's daughter than he had ever considered before, so he simply agrees with her in a wordless affirmative hum.

They stay out on the rooftop for another long while, watching the moon rise higher to mark the countdown until their relative freedom is up; both of them with a clear vision of the next day, but neither of them aware of what the other has in mind, heedless of the fact that they're both very much involved in each other's plans.

Whoever wins this battle of wills, and whether they want it not, their fates are now forever interlinked. They just don't know it yet.

* * *

_That's easy. There's only one girl for me_.

Sleep is a foreign concept that night. The words echo over and over again in her mind, like she can hear them spoken on repeat right in her ear, in the same soft, yet clear and sure tone of voice. For every time she imagines the phrase, it changes slightly, rings truer and truer, more and more final, as if they're pronounced with constantly increasing certainty. From doubt, to insight, to absolution - _truth, _as the night wears on, and she can't even close her eyes for more than short spells, before the words are repeated, and they fly wide open again. Katniss lies in bed with her head spinning, wanting more than anything to fall asleep and forget, perhaps forever. Perhaps then, it would all have been an exceptionally bad dream, and she'll wake up one day, and find Gale is home, and their families safe, and they'll set out to the woods to hunt just like any other morning. But no, in a few hours he might be dead – and even if he does come home, nothing will ever be all right between them again, because she knows deep in her bones that she will never be able to forgive him.

_Only one girl for me._

Where does that leave her? Who is she to him? By the time the first rays of morning light shines in through the holes in the window shutters, she gives up on attempting to sleep. She swings her legs over the edge of the low bed, careful not to disturb her sister's sleeping figure on the other end, but only to find herself stuck in place. For the first time since she can remember, she can find to real motivation to get out of bed, can feel no allure in the motion of rising with the sun, sneaking out beyond the confines of the District and walk the forest trails in the fresh morning air. More than anything, she just wants to fall into deep sleep, lie down on soft mattresses and pull a heavy cover over her head to block out all light. Facing the world seems impossible, mostly because then she'll have to face herself, and deal with her apparently gravely mistaken perception of her life.

For one long moment, she leans forward and buries her straining face, tingling with lack of sleep, in her hands. Then she rubs her eyes forcefully, and pushes up off the bed in one motion. The sudden movement leaves her seeing stars and swaying on her feet, exhaustion catching her off guard, but she crosses the room determinately in five clumsy steps, and catches herself on the rim of the bathroom sink. Squinting at her reflection in the dim, dingy, old-fashioned mirror, she wishes she hadn't. Her hair is frizzy and wild from the heavy rain the previous evening, and her eyes have dark circles underneath, the colour all gone from her skin.

_How could you ever hope for such silly things?_ an insistent, quiet little voice whispers in the back of her head, and she watches her own face darken and fall in response. It leaves her looking more petulant and sullen than sad, which is actually a great improvement.

_You have nothing to be upset about. Get a grip, _she tells herself, trying to convince herself but failing miserably. After throwing on clothes in a tired haze, stumbling a few times and cursing under her breath as her toes catch on the threshold to the kitchen, she grabs her hunting jacket and opens the front door to step outside. Sometime during the night, the storm has evaporated, leaving the day sunny and warm.

She squints at the faint morning light, glares at a singing bird perched in a tree branch close by, but notices that, thankfully, there is not a single person out to be seen. Since today is the first day of the Games, the mines won't open until later, as all citizens are required to stay in for the mandatory viewings. The schoolchildren have been ordered to come in for morning classes as usual, but the first few hours will consist of communal TV-watching. As if she could have forgotten, Katniss is suddenly reminded again what day it is, and her anxiety doubles in intensity, until she is not sure if she still knows how to breathe properly. She tries to find the strength that has kept her going over the last week, that sense of purpose and hope that she has evoked every time things have felt too bleak and hopeless for her to stand it, but instead finds only empty exhaustion.

_There's only one girl for me._

And that leaves her with nothing to hope for. The fresh morning air, clearer than in a long time now that the thunder has passed, fills her brain with clarity that shatters the small, tender part of her heart that she had nursed to life without meaning to in just a few days. She can feel her shoulders sagging, her steps dragging as she makes her way over to the hole in the fence where she can enter the woods. She blames most of her feeble, powerless state on lack of sleep, but how can she explain that she feels as if a black, jagged emptiness has opened up inside her chest; leaking dark, numbing poison through her entire system? How can she explain that it feels as if she's drowning, like she's feebly clawing at the surface far above, seeing the last patch of light disappear overhead?

The motions of hunting are so deeply engraved in her limbs that she can go through them even in this weakened, insomniac state. Step by step, she feels it rejuvenate her, her mind sharpening again as she begins to fully wake up. By the time she makes her way back to the District several hours later, she has sorted through her hazy thoughts well enough to form a new kind of resolution.

First of all, there is no longer any sense in denying the fact that she has developed feeling far beyond friendship for her former best friend – has perhaps harboured them far longer than she likes to admit, but only realised them now. Possibly, she would even go so far as to say she _loves _him, as outrageous as those words are.

But that all has to end, and the sooner, the better, because secondly: she has to face the fact that those feelings are hers, and hers alone, a construction of her confused and unregulated mind that has no place in this world. How could she have let herself be so stupid? All her life, she has known, and told herself repeatedly, that love, beyond that for her sister and possibly her mother, is not something she can afford in this unfree world. She would have thought she would be better prepared when it hit her, that she'd be able to lock it away safely in a corner of her heart and never allow it to spread. But that's the thing about love, she has discovered – it's not described as something you _fall_ into for nothing. It is just that: a fall into the depths of feelings, with nothing to grasp or hold on to that will stop you from plummeting, no reason or logic enough to put your feet back on the ground.

_Well, that's easy. There's only one girl for me_.

What really bothers her is the way he formulated it. He could have said something like _there's this one girl I've always been in love with_, and that would have been fine. She has no claim on his feelings, really, and she would like to think she could have handled the let-down well enough. But the way he phrased it, she is reduced to nothing. She's not a special someone to him, and neither is she his best friend, his trusted hunting partner, or even someone worthy of his thoughts; and that's the part that makes it unbearable, and so damn embarrassing that she only wants to disappear from the surface of the earth. Because in her opinion, he's been the most important person in her life, perhaps only second to her little sister. She would have betted good money that it was a two-way thing, but apparently, she's not very good at reading even him.

However, then there's the inexplicable business with the kiss. If he were indeed so taken with Madge all along, why would he bother to do something so drastic as to kiss _her_? Her mind wanders to dark places, where she wonders if perhaps it was some kind of trick; a game within a game meant to ensure she felt indebted to take care of his family out of tender feelings. She does indeed know Gale has a strategic mind, more so than what is really healthy or morally correct, but she is unwilling to think that he would go as far as that. Through their years of friendship, he has proved to her again and again that he has a big, warm heart under his somewhat thorny exterior. The question is, does that care extend to include her, when it all comes down to life and death?

All things considered, Katniss can't help but feel betrayed, and betrayal wears down her soul way beyond any positive impact that her former hope used to give her, makes every step forward a challenge, every small task a mountain to climb.

* * *

At ten o'clock sharp, an enormous screen has been rolled down to cover an entire wall of the school cafeteria. District 12 has only one large communal school, divided into three large buildings that separately house the different age groups. Therefore, at this moment, every single child in the district, of reaping age and younger, are assembled in the same place, and forced to watch together as somebody's brother, sister, beloved, or dear friend begin the fight for their lives. More often than not, the kids from Twelve die before their eyes, in the first few minutes of the Hunger Games.

Katniss has always felt terrible for the poor kids who have to endure the pity of the whole school, right here among them all, when it happens - but this year, she's one of them herself. If it weren't for Rory, Vick and to some extent, Prim, she wouldn't have been here. She would have disregarded any possible correction that they could have come up with for her, and stayed safely out in the woods all day, probably gone to sleep high up in a tree, where the troubles of the world could never find her. She has no wish whatsoever to watch helplessly as Gale struggles for is life, or ends up killing another human being, or whatever other horror that is to expected from today's bloodbath, and she cares nothing for whatever conventions saying that she should rather want to see it, than be told of it later. She would rather not see him at all, actually, and be reminded of her disastrous shame from last night; and that's that. But the kids leave her with no choice. They can't be left to their own fear, no matter how deeply Katniss wishes she wouldn't have to face another living soul right now.

Arriving at school was a disaster in itself. Exhaustion and the long morning out in the woods has left her too worn out to keep up her normal steely charade of indifference, and suddenly, distress is clear on her face for anyone to see. And they noticed. Hushed voices and wide eyes followed her from the front gate, all through the narrow corridors, to her first class and then here. No matter how hard she fixed her gaze to the floor in front of her feet, or how much she tried to shut them out of her ears, the message was obvious.

_Poor, lonely girl. You're not so arrogant now, are you?_

Or maybe that was just her mind playing tricks on her, but she knows these kids have no boundaries when it comes to oppressing others in order to feel better about themselves. She swears to ignore the lot of them, but no matter how hard she tries, that new insecure voice in the depths of her consciousness keeps saying _maybe they're right._

At least almost everyone in school seem to feel good about their District's chances this year. In the cafeteria, the atmosphere is considerably less tense than usually on the first day of the Games, and both Rory and Vick have received claps on the back and words of encouragement all through the morning, even though people usually leave the family of the tributes alone, kind of like they're infected with some transmittable disease. Bad luck is as bad as any infection here, really. Despite their new popularity, they chose to form a tight little group with Katniss and Prim, the four of them occupying a wooden bench along the right wall, halfway between the screen and the back door. Katniss has planned this spot thoroughly, chosen it for the chance of an easy escape while still close enough to the screen not to seem afraid of what will happen. Life in the Seam is all about retaining your pride, through the worst of circumstances. With her sunken, pallid face and obvious dark circles under her eyes, she's not doing a great job of that herself, but there are still the kids to think about. They shouldn't have to put their misery on show for the whole school to see, Katniss is determined.

And besides, as much as she is upset with Gale right now, she's not sure if she could stand the uncertainty of not knowing if he made it out or not, either.

The only warning is a noise of electric fans chugging to a start, and then the giant wall-screen comes alive, filling the entire room with bright, white light. Katniss thinks of how typical it is that the only piece of modern equipment considered affordable in school is one to spread fear and obedience through the youngest population. In the grotesque irony of the Capitol, it is probably thought to be funny.

The Capitol seal rotates over and over on screen, projected huge before their eyes, while the national anthem plays and they're all forced to stand up in honour. Then, the general tension in the room increases tenfold, as the image switches to show instead a vast clearing, and in the middle, the golden Cornucopia. Everyone sits back down, but not a single whisper can be heard throughout the room, and it seems the whole population of the District, maybe all of Panem, is holding their breath in anticipation.

Katniss gets an impression of greenery, of hills in the distance and can hear a single bird singing close by. Forest, then. _Good_.

In a semi-circle around the large golden horn, twenty-four metal platforms begin to ascend, with as many figures standing squarely on top. There's an eerie moment of absolute stillness, as the tributes are elevated into full view, their eyes flicking around as if they don't know what part of the arena to take in first, before it is interrupted by the booming voice of the commentator.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, let the 74th Annual Hunger Games begin, iiin _sixty… fifty-nine…_"

Katniss can feel her heart beginning to sprint wildly while she scans the area as attentively as if she were there herself. It takes her not a second to locate Gale, standing in a spot slightly off-centre to the left of the half circle. _Good spot, too_. She can see his eyes flailing wildly for a full half minute, locating his surroundings and the other tributes, finding Madge, who has gotten a spot at the very centre of the line. He sees her looking at him, and quickly flicks his eyes to the treeline right behind her, where it is thick and will easily hide her figure. She blinks once, in what might be an affirmation, and he quickly turns to study the Cornucopia and all it's treasures instead.

Thus, he misses her eyes hardening, turning instead to her other flank, and connecting with someone else's there.

But like Gale, Katniss has eyes only for the path between him and the assortment of weapons, outdoor supplies and food that grow more and more valuable the closer to the centre it gets. She grits her teeth tightly, staring at him as if her will alone can make him see reason. Gale is not a bad fighter, that she knows, but he is not big, strong, or ruthless enough to take on the inevitable bloodbath that's about to ensue.

"… _five – four – three…_"

Two separate small hands reach out to clutch both hers, and she squeezes back for all she's worth. She is vaguely aware of Rory huddling into himself on the other side of Prim, and strangely, of the sun glittering in the golden surface of the Cornucopia on screen, just like it is catching in the window panes on the other side of the cafeteria from her.

"… _two_ –" and her eyes are stinging from staring too intently, and the seconds are moving too quickly and - "… _one_".

A loud gong sounds, and then, the screen is a pure flurry of movement, too quick and too scattered to follow it all. At least her eyes know without hesitation who to focus on, before she can lose track of his figure in the disorder of kids running, falling, screaming and fighting. Gale makes a dash forward, running hard and crouched low for the first string of supplies. He makes it there all right, but stubbornly doesn't stop, rushes further into the madness when he realises no one else has made it that far yet. Two more bundles of random supplies, and he's almost by the proper weapons. Katniss finally spots what it is he's aiming for; a set of bow and arrows, set right up against the mouth of the Cornucopia, seemingly one of its kind here. She can only grimace at the fact that it is exactly what she would have done herself, carefulness be damned.

But before he can reach it, Katniss can feel the air punched out of her lungs, as suddenly a knife comes whirling through the air, aiming straight for his head and missing only slightly. Gale spins around wildly, sees the black-haired girl from District 2 come charging at him, and desperately grabs a backpack at his feet to throw up in front of him to dodge a second knife. Before that can lodge itself deep in the fabric of his feeble shield, Katniss has firmly clamped her hands over the eyes of the two children on either side of her. Never mind pride, there is no way she is going to let Prim and Vick watch as Gale only barely saves his life from some maniac who really wants him dead.

"Don't you dare die," she mutters through teeth ground together so tightly she can feel blood pound in her temples. "Don't you _dare_".

She can hear Vick protest mildly under his breath, but she's too busy watching Gale hurriedly ripping the knife free from the bag, before being forced to use it again as a shield, as the third knife comes whirling at him. To his far right, Katniss can see another one of the Careers starting toward them, an already blood-splattered spear in his hand. Thankfully, Gale seems to sense increasing danger if he stays there, because in one swift movement, he sends the knife in his hand flying and sets off running for the treeline, as fast as his legs can carry him. The spear comes soaring after him, but perhaps he can hear the whistling sound it makes while flying, because he changes direction a little, and the projectile misses, only barely grazing his leg. At the same time, a furious roar resounds from the television speakers, as the District 2 girl does not have same luck. All eyes snap over instantly, to see her clutch at her shoulder, where the knife that was originally hers has hit its target and cut up a deep gash in her arm.

Katniss feels a deep sense of justice mixed with unease over all the blood, but then loses focus as she realises Gale is no longer anywhere to be found. She knows that's a good sign, that once in the forest he'll be relatively safe, but she can't help but feel anxious anyway, since she'd much rather be able to keep track of him all the time.

"Lemme go now?" Vick is helplessly trying to catch her attention, futilely pushing against her arm to make her release the death grip she has on his head.

"Oh, sorry," she mumbles back and lets both her hands fall, without taking her eyes off the screen. Prim remains half hidden in her side, watching the battlefield with only one eye half open; ready to be closed at any second.

When scanning the area, trying not to _see _things in too much detail, Katniss realises she has no idea what has become of Madge. It is half impossible to tell apart the dozen or so bodies lying scattered across the once-grassy green field, but she also registers that she has heard none of the cries of protest that usually follow when a tribute from Twelve dies. Perhaps she did run off as soon as the gong sounded, in the direction that Gale had pointed out to her. Perhaps they've found each other already, have come up with this strategy beforehand to work together – after last night, it would be an apt plan.

In some places, there are still fights going on, but the Careers have all other living tributes outnumbered, and it's not long before two more bodies thud to the grassy floor, limp and lifeless. The sheer number of bodies flayed out is enough for most children back in the school to turn a shade of green, ensure many of them will have a fresh set of images to feed their nightmares for a whole new year. Katniss notices that against her worn shirt, Prim is crying silently. In contrast to the tense silence back there, the jubilant shouting of the Careers on screen sounds very wrong, an outspoken act of dishonour for all the children who have lost their lives in the time span of a mere half hour.

Out of the five of them, only the District 2 girl is hurt in any real manner of way, and the two tributes are teasing her over it to no end while they start to search the perimeter of the clearing meticulously, making sure there are no unpleasant surprises waiting for them there. With a start, Katniss realises that there's a small boy sitting by the mouth of the Cornucopia, clearly not one of them but still alive. The leader of the pack, a muscular boy whose name she has deliberately chosen not to catch, stays close by him, sorting through supplies while keeping a watchful eye on the boy. Not that it seems necessary; the poor guy can be no older than thirteen, and is visibly shaking with shock where he sits.

She is just getting impatient for them to show where Gale has gone, when she hears an exclamation of gleeful triumph from somewhere by the edge of the trees. The cameras refocus to show the two tributes from One and the girl from Two descend from the trees, harshly dragging another person with them.

"Ha! Hey, Cato, look who we found," hollers the black-haired girl, who has only barely bothered to wrap a scarf around the cut on her upper arm. On her blunt face is a huge, wolf-like grin, made even more creepy by the blood splatters on her nose and cheeks.

The brawny guy over by the supplies, Cato apparently, looks up with a knowing smirk on his lips, as if he's not in the least surprised by the turn of events.

"Hello, lover girl," he drawls, his cold eyes glittering with bad intention. "Nice of you to join us. I was beginning to think you had chickened out."

His district partner looks ready to cut his head off, clearly out of the loop about what's going on here.

"Let's kill her!" she spits out, wiggling the knife in her free hand for unnecessary clarification.

But Cato looks not in the least impressed by her display of impatience.

"You can let her go, Clove," he says steadily.

Katniss can feel her eyebrows mash together in confusion. What on earth is going on here? Throughout the lunchroom, hushed whispers are spreading in dismay. On screen, they can see the tall girl shake herself free from restraining arms and ignoring their death glares calmly.

"And why the fuck would I do that?" growls the Clove again, still with her prisoner's arm in a tight grip.

Cato sighs, but lifts an eyebrow questioningly at the newcomer. "Because she has promised to help us. Haven't you, princess?"

And Madge stands a little taller, folds her arms across her chest and answers with cool self-confidence:

"Well, I want to live. And you do want _him_ dead, don't you?"

Katniss is not sure if the noise coming out of her throat is a yelp of surprise or a kind of growl, but it is lost in the general uproar of the room as those words sink in.

_Betrayal._ She wouldn't wish it upon Gale even for the sake of revenge.


	6. World on fire

**A/N: **Did someone mention a plot thickening? I think indeed they were right... What was meant to be a quick review of events taking place in the Games is now more of a full retelling, with all kinds of plotting and intrigues involved! Since I have limited time and imagination for plots, it's very close to the book for starters though.

Oh and I love the reviews, thanks again! The best part is, you guys are constantly pointing out little things I hadn't even though about, and it sparks new ideas for the story. So in other words, feel free to have your say... :D

* * *

_Panic_. It's either way too late at night, or much too early in the morning, depending on how you look at it, and Katniss sits in front of the small, aged television in her living room, helplessly watching as all hell is let loose in the Arena. The woods are on fire with flames as tall as the trees, and in the midst of it all, is Gale. Just like in her recurring nightmares, the walls of fire are everywhere, closing in on his running figure with inevitable hunger for fuel, and there's nothing she can do but watch, and feel adrenaline pump in her veins hopelessly. She has a strong urge to run, to fight and to scream in anguish, but since all those reactions are useless from here, she's restrained to simple fear. It doesn't matter how fast her blood courses through her veins; it won't help him escape the cruel hand of faith that is the Gamemakers.

She has not meant to watch anymore of the Games than what is mandatory, and for the last two days, she has had no time to sit in front of the damned TV-screens anyway, but now here she is. After lying awake in her bed for hours, sleepless yet another night, she had given up and gone to sit in the living room, hoping that maybe if she saw for herself that everything is alright – or at least a twisted version of alright - then she's be freed of her night-time terrors.

Instead, she had found them come alive before her eyes.

She is curled into a tight ball where she sits on the floor, leaning her back against a wooden couch with her eyes transfixed in horror on the screen.

"Oooh, things are heating up for the _boy on fire_, for sure!" comes the commentary from the speakers, and her hand darts forward quickly to turn the damned sound off. Only, the motion picture of her friend running for his life through the underbrush is possibly even more eerie in the total silence of her house. He's fast, and agile enough to dodge the potential obstructions in his way, but she can she see that he's fighting a loosing battle.

_Fire is a horrible death_. The words, from a time long ago when her father was still alive, fly through her mind, and she can feel her heart speed up further at the thought. That time, they had been out together in the cabin by the lake, and he had meticulously taught her to make sure the fireplace is safe before falling asleep. That time, the words were a simple precautionary mantra, something to hang up a child's mind on for the future. Now, they are a very real possibility. Damn those Capitol stylists for coming up with something of a clever theme for the tributes from the mining district.

But surely, if he's smart enough, he can get away. Where would be the fun in sending some challenge after a tribute, if it meant certain death? Cleverness has been enough to dodge worse traps than this one in previous years. True enough, when from time to time the picture switches to show a mapped overview of the Arena from above, Katniss can see that he is continuously running away from the fire-lit area, staying just barely ahead of the roaring inferno. At the same time, he is rapidly leaving the safe corner of the ground that he has occupied almost on his own for the last couple of days, and other bright lights on the map tells her that he's been herded into closer proximity to the others. That can't be good, either.

However, that's the least of his troubles, as white-hot flames are still chasing his backside, close enough to be searing the ends of his hair. The only positive thing is that his jacket seems to reflect the heat, otherwise his whole frame would probably catch fire.

_Run! Faster!_ The imperatives that she can't scream out loud, that she wishes she could transfer by telepathy through the screen. Because of the recent torturous heat, the room is overly hot, even in the early hours of the morning, and for a second she is convinced she's there with him, living through the fire herself instead of just watching. But outside the open kitchen window, the teetering of birds tentatively begins, and the illusion is shattered. Still, when she sees a burning log fall across his path, and sees him not hesitate a second before jumping over the thing, flames licking up his legs, the unadulterated panic in her is as real as if she were there. Her arms are clutching an old tattered pillow so closely that she can feel the blood drain from them.

Then, finally, Gale emerges into a small clearing in the woods, and the wall of fire stays miraculously behind. He folds himself double, shaking and coughing smoke out of his lungs. Katniss feels her shoulders relax a small fraction, dubiously regarding his surroundings for further danger. Therefore, she sees it before he does; the last straw of wicked intention when he's at his weakest.

From behind his back, a great wrecking ball of fire comes shooting out of nowhere, like a small, misplaced meteor in the middle of the woods. She doesn't even have time to shout out in the empty space, but he must hear something to warn him, because just in time, he throws his body desperately to the side, landing heavily on the forest floor in a flurry of pine needles. Morning is just about to break in the Arena, and the first, ghostly rays of daylight forms an uncanny white light in combination with the lingering mist of smoke. She can see Gale quickly getting back on his feet, his head twisting around with wide eyes to detect the next threat. The exposed whites of his eyes are gleaming with alarm, his shadowed face set in hard lines.

When the next enflamed projectile comes shooting out of the darkness, he's alerted before she can even see it. He takes off running in the same direction as before, clearly left with no other option, crouching as low as his still-present backpack will permit. The next attack barely grazes his side, the same one as where he was hit days before by the spear thrown at him at the Cornucopia. He grimaces, but keeps running, sprinting a few steps in one direction, and then abruptly changing course in a panicked pattern. Escape, escape, escape. Survive.

The seconds pass by too slow for time to be comprehensive, too fast for her mind to understand how this could be happening, and then suddenly she's not sure if the shadows across the floorboards in front of her are creeping further away with the rising un, or if it's her mind malfunctioning from lack of oxygen. Either way, she can feel her heart stop when Gale rounds a cluster of trees, gets his foot caught under a giant root, and falls helplessly face first to the ground. It take him a fraction of a second too long to get up, and just when he does find his feet, it's already too late. A strangled shriek escapes Katniss' lips against her will, and she clamps her hands down over her mouth, instead of hitting the innocent furniture around her. On screen, fire hits Gale with malicious force on his lower thigh, and it's enough to send him falling back to the ground in agony.

But once again, he refuses to give up on his promise to her. Without looking down, he rises and half crawls, half stumbles out of the clearing, emerging from the thickest part of the woods onto a grassy landscape of hills.

Katniss is still frozen in place, her every limb twitching with cramps, but from the corner of her eye, she senses another figure in the room. Prim walks out of the single bedroom, rubbing her eyes sleepily, and stops to take in the scene before her.

"Katniss?" Her voice is hoarse and confused, newly awoken. The TV is turned away from her where she stand is the doorway, but it's easy to figure out whatever is on it is pretty bad. She sighs as heavily as her twelve-year-old little form permits.

"When was the last time you had a night's sleep?"

Katniss flicks her eyes quickly in her little sister's direction, frowning and annoyed at the question. What does that even matter, when sleep is the last of her problems, really? She shrugs in response. With another great sigh, Prim comes to sit on the couch, but flinches when she sees Gale on the screen, kneeling over and with a cold sweat breaking out on his distorted face. But she's braver than one would think, and well trained by her mother, so her eyes flash down to survey the damage before she can even think it over. Without hesitation, she leans forward and embraces her sister's stiffened frame, cold despite the unseasonal heat in the air.

"It's alright, Kat. It's not bad enough."

Katniss feels her head spinning in dark, dizzying circles. Not enough to kill him, okay, that's a good thing. But how bad? She hates burn scars with a passion.

Prim starts to draw slow, reassuring circles on her back, and she hates that she's so weak she'll gladly let her poor little sister be in charge for a while, but she's just so tired, exhaustion like a deep, flowing river of anaesthetics hitting her at once. Without a choice, she slowly tips over to the side, folding her legs up tight to her chest in a protective ball, has completely forgotten how to make her eyes open. In an impression of white, thick fog, she can vaguely feel her head being lifted, something soft stuck in under her cheek before unconsciousness sinks over her mind like a dense black rug.

Intrusion comes in the form of her body being shaken violently, much too soon. There's some noise coming from just by her ear, warped and ringing like electricity not shut off properly, and there's a sharp pain in her head from the motion of her head wobbling back and forth. She still can't open her eyes, her eyelids like glued together, as sleep is thick and relentless over her brain. Who is she? Where is she? The first thing she does know, it's that something is not right. Too deeply ingrained in her already, anxiety is the first thing she knows, and it makes her all the more reluctant to resurface to the world.

"Katniss!" The voice is a little clearer by now, too familiar to ignore.

Slowly, one eyelids lifts a fraction of the way up, and she's mostly surprised to see it's fully bright in the room.

"I'm sorry, but you have to wake up, Kat. School's in a half-hour, and you know we've got to be there."

Her sister's image floats before her eyes, close up and with a deep worried wrinkle on her smooth forehead. Katniss opens her mouth once, finding it too dry for speech, her tongue like a giant, immobile lump of sand. She blinks tightly a few times, and then her eyes land on the television, blank and silent now.

In a flash, it all comes back to her.

_Panic!_

She shoots upright, stars mingling before her eyes as they try confusedly to focus.

"What time is it?" She sees Prim's eyebrows shoot up, and remembers she had just said something about school starting. Morning…

"No!" she protests, staring down futilely at the nightclothes she is still wearing. "No, it can't be, I haven't gone out to check the snares yet! I haven't… Why did you let me sleep in?" Her eyes are wide and accusing as she tries her best to make sense.

Prim frowns, and meets her eyes levelly. "You had to sleep. I could barely wake you up, even now."

"But what about the food? You should have woken me!" In the other end of the room, she can see their mother by the sink, pots clattering as she cleans them. Either she pointedly chooses not to interfere in the conversation, or she's caught up in her own distant thoughts again. She blames her, too.

"Don't worry, please," pleads Prim softly, righting herself from a crouch beside the sofa. "We'll be fine. You still have time this evening."

"But who will worry, if I don't?" The words slip from Katniss' lips, before she can even consider them, and she sees her mother go rigid where she stands, clearly listening in. It's still true, however, as far as she is concerned. Food has become recently harder to come by, and the weather shows no sign of letting up.

Then, in a shock that hits her like a bad fall, she remembers the second part of the panic. "Gale?" she croaks out, suddenly not angry anymore.

Prim stops on her way to the bathroom, keeps her eyes on the floor, and gives a minute shake of her head. "I don't know. Turned it off," she mutters, and closes the door behind her. Katniss has barely woken up, and already, her heart is beating too fast for comfort.

They end up half running to get to school in time, lucky in a way the classes are postponed again to make room for communal watching of the Games, since it means starting at nine o'clock, instead of eight. In the cafeteria, they find Vick and Rory already hunched in their seats, the same ones as last time, at the launch. Just when Katniss is about to ask them about breakfast, she screen flickers to life, and a great hush falls over the room at once. The first sound is one of pearling water, and the first image too bright with sunlight to make out any specifics. Then the cameras zoom up under the shade of trees, and the setting sharpens into life before their widening eyes.

On the good side: apparently, Gale is well enough to stand up on two legs.

On the bad side: so is most of the career pack, and they're standing in a close circle around him, four to one in a distinctly unfair fight about to happen. Behind him is the wide but shallow, sluggish stream, and right by it is his backpack, still closed and unhelpful to him now. There's a single knife glittering in his right hand, the same one that he gained during the fight at the cornucopia, but in contrast to the formidable weapons all pointing his way in this moment, it's useless. The legs of his dark pants are soaked with water, and in the left one is a giant gaping hole where fire burnt through to his skin earlier. Katniss can see angry, red blisters, and the way he favours his right leg when standing, and curses under her breath before she can stop herself. She thinks he must have been desperate to cool the wound with icy water, if he had been so stupid as to get caught off guard in plain sight. One moment of recess can be fatal in the Games; and this is what proves it. The only one who's less armed than he is, has no visible weapon whatsoever, but her mere presence is a stab in the back worse than most.

Gale eyes his district partner with cold grey eyes, his face a mask made of stone for all the emotion it lets on. In return, Madge meets his glare with a triumphant smile; steel on sinister jade across the half-circle. His expression is much more collected than the first day, when Katniss came home from the woods in the evening to find the TV showing him hidden in the shadowy bushes along the outskirts of the launching field. He had apparently spent the day searching the woods for her, carefully avoiding any contact with other tributes by his superior experience from the forest back home. When he couldn't find her, some instinct must have driven him to go back to the Career camp to look, and thus, he's discovered her sitting by their campfire, as casual as if she too originated from a district where such behaviour is to be expected.

Not even Gale has such total control over his body to keep any reaction from showing in that moment, and the cameras has greedily recorded every single sign of anger and frustration, readily fed the scene of betrayal to the population, hungry for drama at home in the Capitol. It's too good a story to let go unnoticed, overshadowing most other intrigues and taking up large parts of the studio commentary, as people try to figure out what on earth is going down between those two. In the eyes of the Capitolites, it's thrilling.

However, in Twelve, most people are just pissed off. As much as Gale is holding back on his anger, it is well on show on every other face in the lunch room, now that the Major's daughter is once again on air. From the Capitol's point of view, she's the biggest super star their district has seen in… well, the history of the Games - but out here, her actions are a cause for pure uproar. In the short span of time since Madge turned her back on her district partner in favour of the Career pack, the population in their hometown have chosen sides, and it has not been pretty. Thus, in the school cafeteria this morning, there is a visible divide between those kids grown up in the poor areas of the Seam and the likes of it, and the merchant kids from town itself; now separated by allegiances as well as by social ranking. Two nights ago, the door to the justice building was blown up by a small piece of stray dynamite from the mines, and later the same night, a heavy stone was thrown through one of the window in the Major's bedroom, shattering it to shards.

Nothing actually serious has happened so far, but the general atmosphere in the District is definitely tensing up. The talk of the Hob, as Katniss has heard it the day before, was that the two kids responsible for the destruction had already been arrested, and thrown into premature, lifelong service in the darkness of the deepest, western mine. Without wages, for starters, as the gossip-prone Peacekeeper who told the story had put it in his blunt, straightforwardly way. Put differently, they might as well have been killed on the spot.

Since then, people seem to make do with low, grumbled complaints between friends and family, but still, the unhappiness is there, simmering underneath the surface like a restless river ready to overflow in early spring. Katniss thinks ironically, that if only Gale knew how much unrest he could stir up by simply being ditched on national television, he should have done it long ago. On the other hand, she's scared. It seems it's only a matter of time before the people in charge will be forced to tighten their hold on the District, enforce their control over minds as well as lives, and when that day comes, she'll be the first to take the blow. More focus on law-abiding citizens means no poaching on Capitol lands - as they would call her way of supporting her family - and definitely more charged-fence hours.

Food is already a pain to bring home, with the unrelenting weather and long hours of extra school and mandatory watching of the Games. She most surely does not need an electrified fence to add to her worries right now, so she wishes people would just accept the fact that Madge is a coward who chooses to save her own skin above his, and get on with it.

Looking at her now though, Madge does not look very gutless at all - only weaponless. The blond girl is still measuring Gale up with her eyes, seemingly assessing him and comparing his stature with the allies around her. There are both of the tributes from One, that hateful girl from Two, and the boy from Four, who has apparently still managed to hang on to the pack.

"Looks like I get to sink a knife or two into you after all, Twelve," slurs the girl from Two, leering in a sick kind of way. Her left arm seems to be miraculously healed already, probably from some stash of medical supplies included in their pile of goodies. The already close semi-circle around Gale begins to close in slowly, as they all inch closer, ready to kill but seemingly expecting quite a bit of resistance, despite his precarious situation.

Katniss is somewhat aware of Vick, Rory and Prim stirring beside her, the two youngest hiding their eyes partially behind shaking fingers. The room seems to be boiling with terse anger and whispered curses. On screen, Gale is tightening his hand around his one knife, squaring his shoulders into position with determined eyes.

But then a high, clear voice rings out, too full of authority to ignore.

"Enough. Remember, Cato said to take him back to camp." Madge has raised her hands in the air, in a gesture to stop. Miraculously, the other four do.

"What? You don't have the brawns to kill me right here and now?" Gale's voice is a forced growl, too tense to be recognisable. "Or maybe you just don't dare?" he taunts, looking straight first at the knife-crazed girl and then at Madge.

A pearl of too- loud laughter comes from his immediate right, and he shifts his eyes instead to the white-blond girl with _his_ bow and quiver awkwardly held in the wrong way.

"Oh trust me, Twelve, I'd _eat you alive_ any day," she purrs, a predatory grin on her too-smooth face.

Gale's brow furrows, and he has already turned his head quickly away from her to scan the attackers as a group again, but he's too late.

The very moment his watchful gaze got distracted, Madge had turned up her hand ever so slightly, pressed down her thumb in a lightning-fast move, and thus sent a tiny projectile flying straight into his side.

"Watch me dare," she mumbles lowly, as she regards his frame topple over, unconscious before he even hits the ground.

It takes a minute of deadly, dreadful suspension, until they realise there's no canon booming, no reaction from the careers except for taunting laughs.

Not dead - but not exactly acting according to plan, either. For the second time in mere hours, he has escaped death by less than in inch, and it's still coming for him with the force of a freight train. The viewing lasts just long enough to show the boy from Four haul out a length of rope from his pack, and bend down to tie clever knots around his limp arms and legs. Then it goes blank with a _zip_, and silence permeates the room anew.

_Poison is a coward's weapon._ Katniss feel white-hot rage replace the empty coldness inside her, and welcomes the numbing, all-consuming fire of hatred, so infinitely much more useful than sorrow. Seeing Gale humiliated on TV is somehow much worse than being made a fool of herself, and deep inside her, she just knows that this is not how it all ends - oh, and if it does, someone will pay. But in the meantime, she's got to get her butt moving, out of this emotional wreck that she's become, and let anger build tall walls around her mind, like a protective castle of efficiency - the person that she has always known how to be. She walks straight past Mining class, not caring a damn what will happen to her for skipping school, and out to the only place in the world where her anger can be put to use. She has never ran the perimeter of the snare line faster in her whole life, and never has she felt her heart beat as fast as when she falls down to her knees by the last trap, breathing in short gasps and clutching her empty belly.

That's when she sees them; strawberries, in her patch that she thought was emptied for a good long while. Strawberries, the one thing that will grow happily in this heat, and almost completely useless. _Almost_, being the word.

She hates them, but forces her shaking fingers to pick them up one by one, feeling as if each on them is a personal defeat. The odious little berries remind her of golden hair tinted with their colour, of riches enough to afford their taste and of her own dependency on them to bring her income. And most of all, their inevitable value is the thing that annoys the living hell out of her - tired and dizzy from undernourishment and with the relentless heat of the sun beating down on her unprotected scalp – in a sharp parallel to the events she just witnessed on screen.

Yes, anger may be useful, but it's also completely exhausting.


	7. A sunshine showdown

**A/N: **Alright, stressed update now before I won't be able to connect to the precious Internet for a whole other week! So trust me, I'll write, but unfortunately you won't be getting a new chapter for a while... I hope this one is good enough to last you until then hehe ;) Now, there's an apparent lack of action where Gale and Katniss are concerned in this chapter, but i'll make up for that soon enough.

Thanks for reading and reviewing, and don't hesitate to let me know your thoughts :)

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It's several hours later, and the school is reassembled to watch part two of "the District 12 showdown" as the commentators are calling it. Katniss has been home to leave off what little she was able to bring in from the woods – no meat today – and intended to avoid school for at least the rest of the day. Ideally, she would have just crept into bed and spent the rest of the afternoon there, fast asleep to forget about the mess that is her life. But as soon as she'd stepped over the threshold to their combined living room and kitchen, she had been met by her mother in a frantic state.

"What are you doing here? You have to be in school!"

Katniss had just stared at her, like _yeah I know, and I don't really care right now, _but that had gotten her nowhere.

"There's another mandatory viewing in fifteen minutes, they just announced it on TV. If you're not there for the counting, they'll arrest you!" Her mother's eyes were wide and wild; accusing of the careless daughter who would not be raised properly.

So, in the end, Katniss had had no choice but to unload her bags, hang her father's hunting jacket up on its hook, and reluctantly trudge back to the school building for further torture. On her way through the corridor leading to the lunchroom, her mood had soured further as she noticed a pair of all-too familiar eyes lingering on her. She had yet to eat anything today, her eyes and head was hurting from a combination of sleep deprivation and sun sting - and on top of it all, was that churning, unsettling, pitch-black fear of not knowing. What had they done to him? Was he dead already? Or was the point of this assembly to watch it happen?

And then in the middle of this, that boy with the meek, sky-blue eyes has the _nerve_ to stare at her like… like what? She can't fathom if it's some form of pity she sees when she catches his eye, or if perhaps it's something about her appearance that bothers him enough to keep looking. The really confusing part is, there's no menace in the way he keeps following her with his eyes. She's not even really sure when it started; if he had kept this strange behaviour up long before Gale was taken away to the Capitol, and she had only just started noticing now? Either way, it makes her beyond uncomfortable.

Today, he had had the bad luck of being caught staring when she was in such an unlikely bad mood.

_Peeta Mellark, _she had thought to herself, darkly glaring at him without even really meaning to, _my eternal bad consciousness._ The last thing she needs right now is yet another thing to sorry about, and every time she sees him, she's reminded that she owes him her life, in a way, and she has never even said thanks. Today, he had seemed about to open his mouth, intended words visible on his face, but then she'd met his eyes, and the livid expression in her stony features must have made him think twice about it. She really hadn't meant to glare at him like that; it had just been a general reaction toward any kind of disturbance to her private sphere of gloominess. He'd have to be a very brave guy to attempt another word to her, now.

Katniss is a tense wreck when she sinks down on the bench beside her sister, and from what she can see in the half-dark of the curtained room, none of the other three are doing much better. Suddenly, she feels bad for storming off earlier.

"How was class?" she mutters, not exactly caring, but feeling it's her duty to ask.

Rory, Vick and Prim all turn their heads to the left, to stare at her with unfocused, frowning expressions. Rory just half-shrugs.

"Wouldn't know," he mumbles, turning his eyes back to the brightening screen.

"Don't remember," whispers his little brother, looking so frightened and small that Katniss wishes she was the kind of girl to pick him up and squeeze him tightly for consolation. As it is, she helplessly nudges Prim, who puts an arm around the boy's shoulders in her place.

Then the commentary is tuned down, and the picture on screen is once again that of greenish forest light and dense vegetation. There's a sound of multiple loud boots crunching on ground covered in pine needles and twigs, and of voices ringing out fearlessly. The group of Careers come into image as they walk the last part of the trail back to their basecamp. Slowly, painstakingly, they're moving forward, evidently having a hard time trailing Gale's unconscious body behind. He's bound by hands and feet, tied tightly to a sort of stretcher that they have manufactured from two long poles, roughly cut bare of branches. The two District 1-tributes and the knife-wielding girl, Clove, take turns dragging forward one pole each, and since he's by no means slight of frame, they are sweating a fair bit from the work.

Madge is in the lead of the group, scanning the trail ahead for disturbance as best she can. Katniss can't help but wonder spitefully if she'd even recognize danger if she saw it, and besides, she has no weapon to defend them. The other tributes must still not trust her enough to let her walk armed, even if she's proved thus far to be on their side. Last in line is the boy from Four, anxiously turning his head around over and over again to check behind his exposed back, and ever so often glancing down at the way Gale's head is lolling haphazardly towards the ground. It is obvious he's the least comfortable with the situation; the weakest link in the constellation.

Hatred, pain and barely supressed panic are fighting an even battle in Katniss' head, as she watches them reach the end of the trail. She continues to have a very hard time believing Madge would be as ruthless as she comes off in the Arena, would go to suck measures as to sell out her district partner for her own winning. Quite frankly, she doubts that the poor girl will make it even five minutes once they've finished off Gale, when she's served her purpose. Over the last couple of days, the cameras have focused quite a bit on her interaction with the Career pack, and especially on her and the leader, the boy called Cato. It would seem she had struck some kind of bargain with him before the beginning of the Games, but the commentators are still puzzling over when and how such a deal was possible, considering she spent every minute of training and other supervised events with Gale.

The hateful procession steps out of the treeline one by one, emerging into the large clearing where it all began, a couple of hundred feet from the golden Cornucopia where it sits in the very middle. A surprised but triumphant yell sounds from over there, and in the dimmed afternoon sunshine, they can see a sole figure break away from the camp and come jogging across the field to them.

Clove unceremoniously drops her end of the stretcher holding their captive, making the other girl, whose name is apparently something stupid like _Glimmer_, swear out loud and lose her hold too. Gale's limp figure falls to the ground in an awkward, strained heap, his head bumping against the coarse wood to form raw marks on his chin. Katniss can feel her heart constrict painfully when a low, moaning noise escapes him, and she sees his brow furrow, as apparently he's beginning to wake up. The group of tributes, however, pay him no mind - they're expectantly watching the boy approaching them.

"We got him!" exclaims Clove, her booming voice lined with ferocious pride. Katniss can really see why she's not the leader of the group, what with her lacking wits.

"Nice one," replies her district partner, coming to a stop before them and grinning in a way that makes her blood run cold. "See, I told you we'd have good use of Princess Twelve here, didn't I?" His voice is as calm and collected as is his still-grinning face, where emotion in anyform won't quite reach his pale blue eyes. He takes a step to stand right beside Madge, lays a brawny arm around her shoulders, and rattles her a little, as if to prove his point further. She has her arms crossed protectively in front of her, perhaps wanting to come off as confidently as possible, and keeps her little smirk firmly in place.

Clove seems unimpressed, raising a demonstrative eyebrow at their cosy display.

"Well, I'm the one who found him, either way. And I sure as hell am going to be the one to _kill him, _as well." She aims a swift kick in Gale's ribs, which elicits an anguished moan and a slow flutter of his eyes.

"Dream on, honey," drawls Cato. "I'll be the one to end this not-so-cocky-anymore fellow, that's the whole point of you dragging him here." He smiles, and it's not a pleasant one. "Might let you have some fun first though, for being such a good little partner." Cato swaggers over to her, raises an arm to ruffle her short black hair and the lets it drape across her shoulders, instead. She, in turn, turns her eyes to give Madge an undisguised, dirty look, full of all the previous jealousy she so obviously feels towards her. Not a very discreet game, but it seems to be working well for the District 2 boy.

Cato approaches Gale's still form, inspecting the knots tying him down and the amount of damage already done to him thus far today.

"Looks like Twelve hear got caught in the fire earlier. How very inexperienced of him," he leers, much to Katniss' flaring anger.

"You smug bastard," she mutters under her breath. "You wouldn't have seen a fire coming until it was burning up your ass." A few surprised heads turn her way from the kids closest by, but neither Vick nor Rory seem to have heard the comment.

And of course, they can't hear her through the screen either, so Cato only proceeds to lower himself down by Gale for a closer look.

"Do you hear that, huh? In a short while, you'll be dead, and it will be long, and slow, and painful, because _oh man_, you've been annoying the hell out of me from the start."

Painstakingly, slowly, Gale's eyes flutter open, revealing the misty grey colour of his eyes, which are still far away from full consciousness. Something slurred and unintelligible comes over his barely opened lips, and then his head lolls back again, as the poison – and potentially also the pain from his legs – are too much for his senses to cope with.

"What's that, Twelve? A beg for mercy, perhaps? Don't waste too much breath on that now," leers Cato, "you'll have plenty of opportunity to do it later on.

"Oh cut the empty words already," comes Madge's seemingly bored voice. "He can't even hear you, anyway." The camera zooms over to show her still standing in her spot, but with eyes focused solely on Cato's hunching figure, and not on the miserable form beside him.

"What's the matter, lover girl? Can't stand to see your boyfriend disgraced like this?"

Madge only rolls her eyes in response, stating the obvious fact in a steady, unfeeling voice.

"He wouldn't even be here, if I hadn't helped you find him."

"That you did, true," muses Cato, righting himself up from the crouch and pursing his lips in mock contemplation. "And are you so eager to see you partner here dead? You know I am too…" He looks from her, to the other three tributes in the little circle, to their captive on the ground. "But you're right in one thing, however. Where's the fun in killing him if he's not even awake for the occasion?"

His malicious grin is back in place, and the two Career girls burst out in laughter to join it, but apparently, not all of his allies feel the same. The boy from One, who so far has been mostly quiet, sights audibly.

"Why don't we just kill him now and get it over with? Who knows what he'll be like once he wakes up?"

Cato throws his head back in a rather insane laughter, bringing out louder ones from the girls too. "Are we scared of this piece of trash here now, Marvel?" he mocks the other boy, taunting him with a jeering grin and scornful eyes. "What do you think he'll do, make you fall desperately in love with his _handsome jawline_, perhaps?"

The one called Marvel snorts a short laugh, not very amused.

"Whatever. You're the boss, after all. I just don't trust that girl, is all," he mutters, glaring frostily over at Madge.

More laughter. "So now you're scared of unarmed girls, too?" teases the girl in question, smiling sardonically across the assembled circle.

Marvel throws her a withering look, and bends down to take a hold of the pole to Gale's left side, while Cato grabs the right hand side one. Between them, they drag him feet first the rest of the way to the Cornucopia, letting his head bump against the ground carelessly. The only other person there is the small boy from Three, whose job it is to keep their supplies safe by reactivating and controlling the landmines buried all around them. Everyone watching was surprised by that innovative move, and also by the fact that Cato seems to have struck not just one, but two practical deals in his mere week in the Capitol before the Games.

They discard the stretcher as soon as they reach the camp, which consists of two transparent rain shelters extended on either side of a circular fireplace. Cato takes help from the guy from Four, who originally tied the very complex knots holding Gale in place, to loosen them, instead binding his hands behind his back and his feet tightly together. They roll him over to a sitting position at the opening of the golden horn, and then tie his hands to a loop on the thing itself.

"Nice and steady, there," beams Cato, shoving his prisoner's head back to slam against the hard surface of the metal, just for good measure.

In the meantime, Madge has busied herself with getting food out for all of them. She announces that they'll need more cans of ready-made stew from the pile of supplies, and as usual, Marvel accompanies her, hand ready on his short sword and with suspicious eyes surveying her very move.

"Oh jeez, relax already," she tells him exasperatedly when she sees him following. "I'm not going to steal anything, if that's what you're worried about."

He only grumbles something about weapons and safety in returns, frowning deeply in a haughty manner.

"Look, if it makes you feel better, I can go put the poison capsules back with the medical supplies, for now? I mean, what am I going to do with the stupid launch tube, then?"

She gets another suspicious glare, and her armed escort seems to think it through for a minute, before finally nodding curtly.

"Fine by me," he mutters.

Madge loads up three large cans of stew, which she hands over to Marvel before going a half lap around the smallish mountain of food, clothes and useful gear, reaching a large white box with a distinctive red cross on it. She bends down to pry the lid open, and sticks a hand down her jacket pocket, coming up with the small device she had used earlier to pull her district partner under.

"I think he ought to wake up pretty soon," she says in the passing, while fidgeting with the launch tube to get the used poison capsule out. "Should be any minute now, actually…" Her eyebrows furrow slightly, and her head turns back towards the camp for a second, as if checking to see for herself.

Marvel visibly flinches, and snaps his head around to look, too. Indeed, over their shoulders they can see Gale struggling to raise his head, shaking it groggily to try and clear out the confusion.

With her face still trained on the events in the camp, Madge sneaks her eyes back towards the medical supplies box, and with nimble fingers, takes out two small objects – another poison capsule and a tiny round jar – and slip them quickly into her pocket. Marvel doesn't notice a thing.

"We'll go back now," he says, trying to make his rather high-pitched voice sound deep and commanding.

"Sure," quips Madge, retracting her hand from the pocket and zipping it up tightly. She starts to walk, completely disregarding the potential threat of a sword in the back, and as soon as she's facing away from him, the audience can see her smile, pleased with herself. As it would seem, the Mayor's daughter has yet another trick up her sleeve.

In the lunchroom back in her home district, a low murmur runs through the crowd. Is it possible that what they just witnessed was an act of deception towards her chosen allies? Whose side is she really on, this girl who nobody thought would have a chance, but who has so far kept beating the best players at their own games? Something's about to happen, and it's about to happen big time. Katniss can feel her heart beating faster in anticipation, can feel the slightest sliver of hope begin to spiral in her chest. Her gaze flickers between the blond girl and Gale, who is blinking woozily in his spot by the Cornucopia, his hands pulling against the tight ropes binding him down. A look of pure anger and frustration flashes on his face, and he grimaces with pain as the full force of his leg injury comes back.

"Oh, looks who's finally awake! Done with napping yet, Twelve?" Cato strides back from the fireplace to hoover over Gale, a huge shadow falling across his crumpled form. He only glares up at his captor, clenching his teeth as the other boy pokes the toe of his boot into the stark red gash where fire burned his skin earlier.

The rest of the group comes to stand in a ring around him, all leering and sniggering at how feeble he looks, dirty and blood-smeared and barely able to hold his head upright. What he _can_ do, however, is fix his penetrating stare at Madge, and hold it in place. She meets it for a mere second, and then squirms and has to look away - not even her ice-cold demeanour of lately can withstand _that_ glare.

Marvel, who has been watching her closely still, snorts a derisive laugh.

"Feel bad for your boyfriend now, do you?" he scorns her, in that same too-obvious arrogant tone that all the Careers seem to favour.

"Oh shut up, wonder boy," interrupts Cato, clearly annoyed as soon as any of the others even open their mouths. "You're almost as pathetic as that name of yours implies." Then he straightens up to his full height, and crosses his arms with a pleased smirk, still looking down on Gale. He continues: "You do have a point in all your whining, however."

Throughout the semi-circle of tributes, everyone is silent, eyes trained wearily on the boy who is evidently directing the fallout of this little show. Safe to say, he loves the undivided attention, holds a wide grin in place for another moment, before it melts away into a mask of stone-cold intention.

"I believe a healthy dose of trust issues is what will get both you and me far in this competition," he says to Marvel, and then his eyes snap aside to fixate on the girl next to him. "And right now, I know exactly who I distrust the most here."

Madge's eyes widen, and she instinctively takes a step back as Cato takes one forward. However, she stand her ground there, swallowing down whatever fear might be otherwise showing.

"I've given you no reason not to trust me, Cato," she says steadily, while barely noticeably slipping one hand down her jacket pocket. "We had a deal, and now I've held up my side of the bargain." She wisely keeps her gaze firmly trained on his, not acknowledging the other boy drawing closer from her other side. The circle is suddenly tense, edging together with readied hands, and by now, it's five on one without hesitation.

Cato laughs mirthlessly. "Yes, my princess, you certainly have paid your weight in gold. But well, now you've served your purpose, so…" He shrugs.

Madge's eyes flicker from side to side, her body tense and ready to spring, if only there had been anywhere to run. One flick of Cato's hand, and Marvel closes the last few inches, and descends on her like a flash, grinning wolfishly. She doesn't even have time to take her hand out of her pocket, before it is ripped out and twisted behind her back in a firm grip. The one poor excuse for a weapon in her possession falls ineffectively to the ground beside her, open for everyone to see.

"You little bitch," seethes Marvel right by her ear, rattling her in his grip and moving one arm to squeeze around her throat. "You told me you'd disposed of that!"

She's helpless in the clasp of her former allies, twisting her arms in vain a few times before realising it will get her nowhere.

"It seems I made the right call not trusting you." Cato smirks, and walks up to stand in front of her, knife in hand. "And now, here comes the best part."

Slowly, agonising, he strokes the tip of his knife from the top of the partition in her loose hair, along the side of her forehead to her temple, pushing aside a few strands to rest behind her ear. Madge is visibly trembling, clenching her jaw to keep it from showing on her lips but breathing shakily through her nose. Her eyes close tight; as she is well aware they can do anything they want with her now.

_Game over, Madge_, thinks Katniss, since this is clearly not going according to any of her plans. The tension in the room is now almost tangible, seeing as how both their district's tributes could be dead within minutes.

Cato lays the cold steel of the blade flat against her cheek, only just pressing the tip of the knife into the tender skin under her eye.

"Now," he drones, "now you will die, and you will do it while your alleged lover here gets to watch. Double the fun." His face is a mere inch from hers when he mumbles the last part. "Shame to waste such a pretty face, but I hope he'll enjoy the show."

When he takes a step back, Madge is breathing in short, panicked gasps, but her eyes are shining with defiance, rather than fear.

"You said you'd let me live if I brought you Gale! I'd be a much better ally to you than these meatheads you choose to hang around with," she tries to reason with him, her voice surprisingly steady from anger.

He only barks his empty laugh in return, and draws a thin line of blood along her cheek before stepping away. "Don't you know, no decent person ever won the Games. Tie her up next to our other guest, will you, Marve?" Turning his back on her, he assumes his subordinate to just follow order, without question, and he's right.

Gale is alert now, but has stayed silent all through the interaction that has lead to him getting company in the makeshift prison by the Cornucopia. His stern eyes follow Madge as she is lead over and pushed down into a sitting position by a swift kick to her knees. The cold fire in his eyes seems to say _what the fuck was the point of all that now_? Meanwhile at home, Katniss is considering frenetically if there's any way out of this at all. Her gaze is dancing back and forth on the huge screen in front of her, desperately searching for a way out. Every time her thoughts hit a dead end, it flickers back to Gale, trying as best she can to read his face, hoping to find any inclination that he's thought of something that she hasn't. She knows that he's obviously thinking hard, but also that if he had found an out already, he wouldn't be stupid enough to let it show on the outside.

Madge is fighting with futile desperation against the fetters being tied around her wrists, words still spilling out of her mouth in a fight for her life even as she's shoved around, her back against the golden horn, a good feet or two away from Gale.

"But I promise, I'm still on your side! I don't care if you kill him, I just want to live another day, and –"

"This is the Hunger Games, honey," interrupts Cato from his position by the fire, carefully inspecting as Marvel and the guy from Four binds her in place. "What's the use in surviving another day, if you won't make it to the end anyway?"

Madge's eyes narrow, and she splutters out another kind of self- protection:

"Then why do you let the rest of these idiots stay alive? And the rest of you," she looks around, blood trickling slowly down her cheek, "why do you let him live? He'll kill the lot of you eventually!"

Clove and the other Career girl, who have been busy rekindling the fire and heating up stew this whole time, snap their heads up, glancing at each other and then over to Cato and Marvel, who are already eyeing each other.

"I'm getting really tired of your big mouth, you know," growls the District 1 boy, twisting her arm a little extra forcefully to make her cry out in pain instead.

Poor Madge, who has probably never felt any physical pain beyond a simple splinter in her entire life.

Cato just quirks an eyebrow, unbothered by the question. After all, it's not like he has never thought about it before – it _is _a rather obvious dilemma. "That's a later problem," he says. "Nothing you'll ever live to witness."

Madge lifts an eyebrow of her own at that, defiant. "Oh yeah? I don't see you doing anything to end me, yet."

"_Yet_ is the word, princess. What's the fun in making it quick, after all?"

"But I'm – "

"Knock her out, will you?" Says Cato, throwing a look at the white-blond boy still hovering over by where she is sitting.

And Marvel smiles, unsheathes his sword, and swings its hilt with full force towards the side of her face. The knock sends her head twisting to the side, her hair a golden cascade in the air for a split second, before it connects with a dull _thump_ with the wall on the other side. A light shower of blood rains across the short distance, landing in a macabre sprinkle over half of Gale's stricken, wide-eyed face. He blinks, staring for several moments at the slumped, unconscious mess of a girl to his right, as she's facing his way with only a curtain of blood-matted hair between them.

His jaw is impossible strained, but he wisely clenches his teeth around the tirade of words that he would apparently like to spill right now. Wisely, since he has rightly guessed that the less attention he draws to himself, the less they'll bother with him, for the moment. So far, in only a few days time, he has been close to dying first from dehydration, then from fire, and now the Careers. Things are not exactly looking bright for District 12's first volunteer ever, as now his only potential ally is even worse off than he is. Gale lets his head fall back against the sun-heated surface of the Cornucopia, and in his skyward eyes are despair, clear as a day for anyone to see. The usual stony mask is nowhere to be seen, as if he's baring his soul in a plea for help. As if there's anyone to help him now.

As soon as the producers of the Games realises that nothing of interest is going to be happening anytime soon, the seal of the Capitol takes over the screen, marking the end of this session of required viewing. The curtains lining the large room roll automatically to the sides, flooding the perplexed audience with bright sunshine. Katniss has to cover her face with both hands for a minute, partly to shelter her eyes from the gleaming intrusion, and partly to give herself time to rearrange her face back into its normal unfeeling state, where no emotions can betray her storming insides.

Several deep breaths, several pinches to the skin underneath her eyes, and a mental effort worthy of a gold medal, and she thinks she's as good as there. Jumping up on two feet, and looking over at the three kids for which she may soon have to be as well a big brother as a big sister, she sees they are all in a similar position as the one she just escaped.

"Vick. Rory. Prim. Come on, we're going home."

The two boys lower their hands, but she almost wishes they hadn't, because the completely lost grey ocean she sees in their double pairs of eyes is beyond what she knows how to handle.

"I just _really _want to beat someone up," growls the elder of the two brothers, his fists clenching so tightly that the knuckles are whitening.

Katniss stares at him, and she can feel her face scrunch up in frustration. To her great relief, her little sister chooses that moment to interfere. She really can't believe how good Prim is with setting her own horror aside for the sake of other people, already at the age of twelve.

"Let's go demolish that old shack some more, yeah?" she asks him, forcing his hand open to make him clutch her own instead.

As for Vick, that one is a harder nut to crack. The kid is only eight years of age, and a small, sprightly boy with a happy, careless mind, who should never have to be faced with terrible situations like this one. No one should, really, but some just handle it better than others. When he won't pry his hands away from his eyes, no matter how much Katniss demands he pulls himself together, or pleads with him, she just sighs, and puts aside her own despair for a moment.

"It may still be okay, Vick," she murmurs in his ear, when it's almost just the two of them left in the room many minutes later. The only response she gets is a muffled little sob.

She ends up carrying his small, thin frame all the way back to the Seam, while never ending tears slowly soak the shoulder of her worn shirt since he refuses to show his face to the world. His mother opens the door with worry lines etched almost as deep as her own ones. They share no more than a look, and a minimum of quick words.

"We'll be over later. With food."

Hazelle takes over her youngest son from her aching arms, nods once, and disappears back into the house, like she wants the door to close as quickly as possible. No point in putting their misery at display for the neighbours, any more than necessary. The way home is slow, agonisingly long despite the short distance. The sunlight takes on a strange, dreamlike quality in her drained state, and the air seems to be shimmering when she tries to focus her gaze. Every few minutes, she imagines she can sense Gale's presence by her side, just about hear the softest thud of his boots on the grovel beneath her feet. Each time, she snaps her eyes open, shakes the fogginess of almost-sleep out of her head - because that thought only scares her further. If he were indeed able to walk beside her in spirit, it could only mean one thing, and that possibility is all too real to be imaginable.


	8. Die and let live

**A/N:** Hello again, I'm back from the Internetless seas to give you another chapter, after that horrible cliffhanger you all had to live with... Wasn't so bad though, was it? I thought I'd be gone for a bit longer, and a bit of suspense never killed anyone ;) So, we'll see what you make of this... Deep breath, and then straight into the heart of the action again. Actually, these chapters take such a long time to write because I find the eventful parts really hard to write. Plotting is so not my thing haha.

Are you people sick of the Games yet? And how about Madge? I just love hearing your inputs on the story! Oh and by the way, over 100 reviews so far! I can't believe it! Thanks for the support :)

* * *

"Mom, is there any more soup?" Posy looks up from her empty bowl with an expectant expression on her small face. She's only four, after all, and has yet to fully realise the ways of the world she's born into. All of her brothers have learnt long ago never to dare asking that question, since the answer is almost always one they'll regret hearing. But for Posy, the world is a place where her big brother would walk through fire for her sake, and she does not really understand the meaning of the word hardship, since she has been ferociously protected from it since birth.

Katniss feels her belly constrict in guilt. It's her job to be Gale's replacement now, and after a mere week and a half, his precious little sister is already hungry. This evening, the two families share a sombre meal of thin weedy soup and tesserae grain bread, and there's just enough for seven portions. Before Hazelle can even begin to gently but firmly turn her daughter down, Katniss sets her untouched slice of bread before Posy.

"Here, take mine. I'm not hungry," she lies, smiling the biggest smile that she can muster.

Posy looks at the food with a brightening face, but then seems to catch herself, and frowns as she raises her eyes to the other girl.

"But what about you?"

"I'm fine, Pose," she assures her. "I had some berries in the woods today."

She didn't, obviously. The strawberries are to be saved promptly for trading in the morning, too fine a food for people from the Seam. It's lucky she left them at her house, though, because otherwise she's sure her guilty conscience would have driven her to hand them out as dessert.

"What!" exclaims the little girl, mouth hanging open. "Why didn't you save any for me?"

Katniss smiles an actual little smile at that, one that almost reaches her eyes.

"It's only for the grown-ups, didn't you know?" She sticks a finger into her side, which brings out a shrieking giggle that fills the room pleasantly.

Thank heavens, Posy is still too young to truly understand what's going on with her family, and is mostly confused as to why none of them are smiling like usual, not even Primrose.

"Is it because you all miss my big brother?" she had asked Katniss when the Everdeens arrived with dinner earlier. Perceptive little girl, for sure. She had assured her that, yes, that's exactly it. It's the truth after all, to some extent.

After dinner, no one feels much like getting up, or like talking. They sit quietly, staring off into walls or fidgeting with their spoons restlessly. When the TV across the room finally flickers back to life, just like they had dreadfully been waiting for it to do, it's hard to tell if it feels more like relief or like torture. Katniss pinches her eyes closed in hatred of the static noise from the television, and wishes for the millionth time this wasn't her life at all.

Then she sighs, and gets up out of the chair, crosses the room and slumps down in front of the sofa to watch. The other three older kids follow her lead, but there's not a chance in hell they're going to let Posy see this. Earlier that day, Hazelle had kept her home from pre-school classes, claiming an intense fever made her too sick to attend.

"Come on, bedtime," she says now, urging the girl along with a firm gesture.

"But, aren't we going to watch Gale on TV?" she protests, making everybody flinch.

"Not tonight, honey. Remember, you had a fever last night." She sighs deeply at her demonstrative stubborn set of her daughter's face, but then seems to come up with a great idea. "I'll read you stories, for as long as you like - okay?"

It seems Hazelle would rather not see her son tortured on live TV, either. The two of them are out of the room just in time, before the spectacle is on yet again.

* * *

The initial camera view of the Games shows a panorama shot of the Arena. Eight of the blinking dots indicting live tributes are still clustered in the very centre, which is more than enough information to still the first question on Katniss' mind. All right, still alive then. Why else would they choose to announce another Hunger Games broadcast, already?

Then _swoosh; _next thing they see is aclose-up of Madge's bloodied face. Prim gasps and jumps from shock in her seat, and even Katniss has to relent that it's a downright gruesome sight. Darkness has begun to descend over the setting, and the flickering of the campfire reflects in her gleaming hair. Apparently, she's beginning to regain consciousness after the knockout earlier, as her head is twitching in small anguished movements. When the cameras zoom out, they can see Gale has managed to fall asleep beside her, his head rolled sideways in her direction. If it weren't for the pitiful, miserable setting, they would have looked almost sweet together.

Excited, shouting voices begin to sound from a distance, as it seems the Career pack is returning to camp. From the sound of them, they've been out hunting for other tributes to kill, and it's been a successful trip.

"Did you see the look on that guy's face? He was _actually_ crying!" It's Clove, talking too loudly as usual, and her laughter cuts through the evening air like the squeaking of rusted metal on metal.

At the nearing voices, Katniss can see Gale's eyes snap open, and he rights himself as best he can in his awkward fettered position. His eyes glitter in the firelight, as he looks from the pack approaching, to the two figures already seated by the fire, to the injured girl at his side. Not for the first time, his arms tense up as he struggles to find a glitch in the bonds around his wrists, and he pulls at them for a while, until relaxing his shoulders again with a defeated sigh.

The group reunites with their two guards left behind – Marvel and the boy from Three – and they continue to brag about the tribute that they had spent the evening locating and killing. From an outside point of view, they should rather just shut up about it already, because it turns out to be the cripple from Ten that they've found, weakened further by the burning inferno that night.

Only after they've celebrated with more food, stuffed their faces on supplies that all the other tributes could only dream of having, do they turn their attention back to their previous victims, like a pack of wolves descending on live prey stacked away for later killing. By then, the sky above their heads is all black, with streaks of misty clouds obscuring parts of a full moon and a dense sprinkling of stars. The pale night time light, mixed with the orange flickers of fire, distorts all colours.

"Wakey, wakey!" screeches the District 1 girl, clearly overexcited after all of the day's events.

"Time to _die,_" joins in her District 2 counterpart, and the two girl strike up a horrible fit of giggles, made so much worse by the way their knives flash brightly in the orange-tinted light.

Too quietly for the Careers to hear over their incessant shouting, the Cameras capture a quick, subtle conversation between the two doomed kids from Twelve. Madge raises her chin a fraction, opens her eyes to seek out Gale's, and meets them with a desperate plea in hers. In the long shadows, their faces are all but invisible from a distance.

"Trust me one last time, please?" she whispers, her lips barely moving.

Gale gives her a hard look, and answers in a low, suspicious mumble:

"Why should I?"

Her stare doesn't waver one bit. "Do you have any other choice?"

Their eyes hold for another second, which feels like an eternity for all the emotions passing over both of their faces. Then Madge speaks up again, her words a strangled whisper, and in just a few little words, the tables are turned again.

"And also, because I love you."

And Katniss is not even surprised, but she bets the rest of the population are falling out of their TV-couches in outraged excitement.

There is no time to react, no time to show close-up on either of their faces, because in that very moment, the Careers are upon them. Cato and Four - whatever his name is – proceed to loosen the ropes around Madge's ankles, and cut her loose from the surface of the Cornucopia. They drag her upright, hold her thin frame up between them, and her head hangs down as if she's still too weak to even straighten it.

The second thing that the Career miss, is that in the motion of being pulled upright, Madge opens the palm of her hand, and out spills two small objects, rolling across the grass to where Gale is sitting. The viewers can see his eyes flicking down, widening slightly, and a confused frown grazes his features for a split second. Then it smoothens out, and he resumes watching what goes on in front of him.

Loaded with a nasty-looking belt full of knives and razors in different shaped and sizes, Clove steps forward to stand in front of the girl in her allies' grip. They're the same height, the same age, but in this moment, the darker girl looks like a menacing monster compared to Madge's broken frame. She growls, "Open your eyes, Twelve," and raises the tip of a large, curved blade to touch her chin. "I want you to see all these little toys I have in store for you. I want you to understand, that this is going to take a while."

Madge slowly unfolds her eyelids in a motion that, if you look closely, seems a little bit too calculated. She looks drowsily over the attire tied to her oppressor's belt, and grunts, trying weakly to struggle in their grip.

"That's right," the girl continues. "You _should_ be afraid."

"Oh, come on, Clove," interferes Cato. "Get on with it, before I change my mind about letting you do the honours."

Clove glares at him, but raises her knife to the point where the previous scar ends, and incises the blade right there, continuing the thin line further down her cheek. Madge whimpers, but otherwise doesn't move an inch, and her eyes turn from hazy to furious in an instant. She hides it by closing them, and slumps further down in the arms holding her up, as if close to feinting.

"Not much fun in that, if she's unconscious," mutters Marvel, who has come up behind Clove, a sturdy metal bat in one hand. "I'll do it quicker."

"Stay out of this!" she hisses, pushing him away. The two of them begin a heated squabble over who should get to do the dirty work, and how it should be done, and meanwhile, the girl from One - so far the least noticeable of the group – sneaks up to Gale where he sits in the shadows, and sinks down on her hunches in front of him. She reaches out a hand, and traces his cheekbone with one long, sleek finger.

"Enjoying the show, handsome?" she purrs, clearly just amusing herself while the others do the work of killing.

Gale stares at her, letting on about as much emotion as a stone. "Immensely," he mutters in a dry, cracked voice. He's awfully pale, thinks Katniss, after twelve hours of being bound down without water and mostly unconscious.

"Oh I wish it had been you and not that stupid partner of your who had joined us," sighs Glimmer, continuing her little monologue despite the increasing cries of pain emitting from behind her. "We could have had so much fun together, you and I." She giggles, still letting her hand rest on the skin of his face.

"The bitch," mutters Rory under his breath, which elicits a grunt of approval from Katniss, despite her better judgement and her mother's reprimanding tsk. She feels a stab of possessive anger go through her, and she knows it's ridiculous considering the circumstances, but that means very little in the moment. Surprisingly, her least favourite tribute comes to her rescue, temporarily.

"Glimmer, shut up and get out of his way," shouts Cato, taking his eyes off the macabre scene where he's involved to give the curly, white-blond girl a reproaching look. "We wouldn't want him to miss out on the action, right?"

She giggles again, and moves to crouch instead by Gale's left side, pinching his cheek one last time. "Don't worry, boss. I'll make sure he stays put with eyes wide open." She puts a small hand under his chin, tilting it up with a big smile.

"I'm not worried about that," Cato mutters, while he watches Marvel take place before Madge, having somehow won the argument, it seems. Cato takes a step back, mostly letting go of her arm in order to give him some space. "He's tightly tied up there. It's your lacking wits that disturb me the most actually."

The guy from Four, who is still holding Madge's other arm in a loose grip, chuckles darkly at that. "Yeah, don't you worry, Cato, he's stuck safely in place," he says. "It's lucky I tied such a perfect fisherman's knot." The boy's eyes snap a fraction of an inch to the side, fast as lightning back again before he lets anyone see it, but since Gale is already staring intently at him, he sees it clearly.

Back at home in the dim-lit living room, Katniss shoots into an upright position, suddenly alerted and tense. Her eyes are wide as saucers, as the implications of what the boy just said has dawned on her as quickly as it has on her best friend on screen. She _has _spent years watching him tie snares in the woods, after all; some manner of knot-tying knowledge has stuck to her memory.

"Katniss?" comes Rory's questioning voice, laced with anxious fear since he can't tell from her eyes what she's thinking. She turns around, to let him see the glittering, fierce hope in them.

"I think they have double traitors in the pack," she blubbers, too excited to control her voice properly.

She can see the same gleam in Gale's eyes, notices his wrists shifting ever so slightly, as if twitching to be free. However, he slowly relaxes his shoulders, and she can see him fighting to remain the mask of hopelessness on his face, while his eyes flicker around in a carefully measured, calculating move. They land on the girl to his left, but in that moment, she's too busy watching her district partner touch his bat to the ground, shake his shoulders loose and generally working up his nerve to one, great strike. Madge is shaking before him, probably well aware that there is nowhere to run and hide, no use in fighting. At least death will be swift this way. She's already bleeding from a dozen shallow cuts in her face, arms and chest, and it's a wonder she's still standing, really.

Marvel raises his bat, but takes a second to utter one last snarky remark. In their couches, all of Panem are probably holding their breaths, tensing up for the crunching noise when the hard metal connects with her fragile bones, but at the same time, there is something more interesting to look at.

Swiftly, his hands sure, Gale fumbles around only a little with the ropes fettering him to the Cornucopia and finds the single end of a rope that sticks out of the tangle. Gently, in a barely noticeable motion, he pulls on the stump - and Katniss watches it with her heart thundering - and then – miraculously – the ropes fall loose from around his wrists. He wriggles them around a few times, gets rid of the last knots, and picks up the two little objects in the grass beside him, before he sets himself in action without further hesitation. His hand twists to the side, firing off the small tube in his right hand with a barely noticeable whooshing sound, and Glimmer's body tenses in surprise and pain, as a bright green dart hits her upper leg.

The fair-haired girl would have screamed out loud, but his hand darts out to cover her mouth before she has any time to react. His strength, even in this weakened state, way exceeds hers in her poison-induced haze, and he has her down on the ground, launching the weight of his body to hold her down, in the blink of an eye. Then, just as the metal bat begins its arch straight towards Madge's unprotected skull, he has to remove his hand from her mouth to grab at the knife secured at her hip, and at the noise, one of the Careers – Katniss is not sure who – shouts out in alarm, making the whole setting come to a stop at once. The blow stops mid-air, mere inches from Madge's head.

In the sudden flurry of motion, no one knows what to do or where to look, and two thing happen all at once: first, Gale plunges the long-bladed knife deep into Gimmer's chest, and blood spills from her mouth and tears form in her large, blue eyes and a terrible gurgling noise escapes her. Before she is even dead, he swiftly pulls out the knife again, and saws on the bonds by his ankles. Secondly, Cato releases his hold on his remaining captive, to spring for the other one, who's currently in the motion of escaping his grasp.

"Seize him!" he roars, sprinting forward ahead of everyone else.

Gale's whole body language screams of urgency, as he desperately saws away at the rope: tense and distressed, and he's _almost_ there, and Katniss and Rory are on their feet in front of TV, screaming for him to _go faster_, but it's not enough. Cato, Clove and Marvel are only a few feet away from him, when a single strand of thick rope is still connecting his feet, but he rises anyway, grabbing hold of one of the poles that bound him down before, still scattered beside him. He hold the wooden staff out before him, swings it in a wide circle that makes the tendons in his arms stand out like wires. But the three Careers in front of him only grin, because clearly, it will not be sufficient to ward them off for any length of time, seeing as how they're loaded to their teeth with throwing knives, swords and god knows what else. And then there's the small detail that all else equal, these teenagers are trained in the arms of combat since even before they could walk. In comparison, all the snares and bows in the world could not save Gale.

Speaking of bows, a fine example of one is currently being squished under the dead weight of the girl he just killed, and Katniss stares at it for a long second, half thinking of how that was his first kill, and half cursing how he hadn't had time to snatch it out from under her before interrupted. But then it's all full focus, as even the Careers seem to have lost their appetite for snide remarks in the face of death. Perhaps they're starting to realise how those pauses only seem to get them more _into_ trouble than _out of it_. Cato makes a move forward, feinting as if to test him, and Clove moves in from the other side, like the perfect, rehearsed teamwork it probably is. With a sort of double-take twist of the pole, Gale manages to ward of both of them, but it's a very close call, and he knows that as soon as they get closer, all he has to work with is the short blade of a knife.

"Nice try," glows Cato, grabbing hold of his long, straight sword in both hands. "But now I'm _all_ out of patience." He takes a step forward, mirrored by his district partner, and is just about to point the tip of the weapon straight at him when -

"What the fuck!" The exclamation comes from Marvel, who must have had the wits to look behind his back, and has seen the boy from four is now standing empty handed.

"_Don't move_."

The voice is feminine, collected as far as anyone with a major head wound can sound, and it's relief in its purest form, to the audience back in Twelve.

All eyes in the large clearing flicker over to get a glimpse of why on earth Madge would be still within earshot, if she somehow managed to escape her last captor. Now, they can see her clear as a day, standing in a bright spot of purest moonlight, upright and determined like you wouldn't believe after her recent display of near unconsciousness. Most likely, Cato had let her be left as good as unguarded only because he thought she wouldn't be capable of staying on her feet, much less running or plotting against him. Still though, it seems very strange that he is actually following her spoken order. Why doesn't he just kill Gale and then get on with finishing off her too?

The answer becomes clear, as the cameras zoom in on her spot on the ground, right beside something that looks like a giant opening of a mole's tunnel. And that's when she chooses to make her intentions evident:

"Let him go," she speaks, voice cold and hard as the sliver light that illuminates her in the night time air. "Hurt Gale, and I _will _step on this trigger, and blow all your supplies, along with myself and all of you, to pieces."

Her eyes are glittering in the shine from above, burning with purpose and resolve beyond even that of living. The Careers may not be very familiar with the concept of emotions, least of all with the strong conviction of true love, but they can surely recognise the meaning of truth when they see it.

"Easy now, Princess," says Cato, but his voice is much less steady that even heard before. "You do realise, that if you do that, your precious Prince here dies too?"

Her eyes flicker toward Gale, flames of desperation burning out quickly to be replaced by anger. Whatever he might be feeling about the situation is not told through the camera lenses.

"At least none of you will get out of here alive, either." And there's really no faulting that logic, because it is without a doubt how he would have reasoned, too.

Cato's head is visibly snapping back and forth between the two District 12 tributes, as if unsure of who he would like to see dead more. His eyes stick on Gale, narrowing as he looks to the tall build and determined eyes of the other boy. Clearly a more difficult kill, and armed, too.

Madge takes a step closer to the pile of dirt that marks a buried landmine, calling out "I mean it!" and emphasising it by letting one foot hover above ground, at the ready.

Hesitantly, with eyes wide and alert for any sudden movement, Gale starts to back up with small, restricted steps to the Cornucopia, away from his enemies readied to strike an attack any second. While Cato's eyes are still undecided, he bends down, snaps off the last rope between his ankles with the knife, and grabs for the bow that Glimmer left behind in death.

Madge takes one step – just the tiniest of steps – to the right, and sets her foot firmly on the ground where explosives are bound to shatter her limbs in just the blink of an eye.

The Careers throw themselves on the ground, crying in alarm and covering their heads with both arms.

The boy from Four just stands frozen is place, staring open-mouthed at the girl who has just written his death sentence in stone – if it wasn't already evident that he'd deceived them by giving Gale an easy escape, that is.

Katniss stares fixedly at Gale, who is running straight for the trees much to her relief, but can hear the others in the room whimper in anguish. A second ticks by, then two, and her lungs are aching with lack of oxygen as her whole body is frozen in place, leaning forward and hands half extended, clutching at her hair. He keeps running, getting himself the head start he so desperately needs if he's going to escape them as a pack.

Three seconds – then four.

And nothing happens.

* * *

He runs: runs and runs and runs until the pain in his injured leg is so all-consuming that each step seems like stepping on hot, burning coals and his lungs are wheezing like they may give out either moment. Any second, he expects to feel the impact of his eardrums shattering, a wave of pressure throwing him forward and straight into never ending darkness – or alternately an explosion of pain as a knife or a spear pierces his back. He's almost expecting to see a sharp point protruding through the front of his chest, as if the visible proof will be easier to register than the actual pain. But nothing ever comes, and he's only ten feet away from the treeline when the first shouts of furious commands ring out for him to hear. Shortly thereafter, there's instead a single cry of pain, and no matter how distorted the voice, he knows to whom it belongs – _belonged, _perhaps, because it sounds too much like the kind of noise that animals trapped in his snares make, right before he cuts their throats to finally finish their feeble lives.

But there's no looking back now, and there's no stopping, because when someone has given their life in order for you to have yours still, that's not something you throw away simply by instincts for revenge. Because vengeance is a secondary emotion, this he has learned ever since he was a small kid in the vicious reality of the Seam, and survival will always come first, no matter how high the price, no matter how hard the blow of guilt will come later. Right now, all he can do is be grateful, seize this last opportunity, and run. Adrenaline is a useful thing. Faster than should be possible with the trauma on his leg, he bounds into the shelter of the woods, and instantly, he knows that this particular game is now levelled out. This is the same part of the Arena forest that he first entered after the start, and he actually knows where he's going - deeper into the forest still, until he will eventually find somewhere safe enough to hide. Strangely, he's not even being followed: there are no notions of heavy steps catching up from behind registering in his momentarily hypersensitive ears. Still, the instinct for survival triggers him to keep going, to at least keep up a running tempo when he's too weak to sprint, to slow to a jog when his lungs begin to burn like pure fire, and to finally walk in a pitiful half- crouch when his whole body want to curl up and die and his sight is a mere tunnel of closing darkness. Only then, too tired to even move his feet a single step further, does he allow himself a moment of respite.

And all the time, one single image keeps burning deeper and deeper into his eyelids; tattoos of guilt that will never leave his skin or his mind. He sees the blond girl who he first thought to be his ally, turned his enemy, turned out to be his guardian angel – he sees her bloodied, drawn face over and over, how she locked her bright green eyes on his right before she took that last step, and how he could see all the way across that distance when she made the decision to act. If he had still doubted her intentions before that, he no longer could - such had been the sincerity he had seen in her, and it made it all so much worse. If she had only _trusted_ him, and gone along with his _plan_, it would have never come to any of this.

Sprawled on the ground, he licks his parched lips, and he can taste blood on them, which, he realises, is not his own. A sweaty hand across his face comes off with dark red streaks, and he stares at it for an infinite moment of time, realising that it pains him more than any wound made to his own flesh ever could. And to make it all even worse, she has given him one last gift: as he regain his ability to breathe and vision enough to see, he withdraws his hand from his jacket pocket, and finds in it a small jar – the one he had slipped him along with the poison launcher – and it's marked "Burn liniment".

Several hours later, after the lotion has been applied twice to take away the worst of the already infected wound, he finds the energy to scramble up a tree to a safe nest for the remainder of the night. He stares at the stars again, pretending they're the same as the ones he's spend endless hours gazing up at from his special place in the woods at home. But it's no use. Even wishing _she _were doesn't help him anymore, since for one thing, it's a horrible thing to wish for, and furthermore, the major, guilty part of his mind won't let his thoughts linger on anything but the girl who just saved his life. Why did she have to make all this so much worse by uttering those last words to him?

He may have been looking for answers, but instead, what greets him is the almost imperceptible jingle of bells, marking the arrival of a gift from above. There's a note, stating simply "_you're lucky to have made friends, now shape up"_ and there's bread and there's water, but it's more than he could have even dreamed of. It's practically a miracle he still even has any sponsors. _Perhaps that's why she said it?_

Yes, he does indeed need to shape up, if he wants things to start going according to his plans any time soon. So far in the Arena, he has done absolutely nothing to attract sponsors for himself, and the only reason he's still alive is because others seem to have taken his survival upon their shoulders, so to speak. What has he done for them, in return? His plans for Madge to last as least as long as he did had failed the very moment they set foot in here, and from there, it had been all downhill. He can curse himself as much as he wants to over not realising she had a mind almost as cunning as his – is perhaps not quite as pragmatic, and a lot more on the dramatic side – but that won't change in any way the fact that her game had trumped his. If only she has put her trust in him, like he thought she would, they could both be alive right now. Without even knowing it, she had even played along brilliantly in her last few minutes alive, acted just like he had planned for them to do by those few words that still ring in his head with surprising clarity, and by saving him in a foolhardy but selfless move. The worst part is that he knows - had known all along – that it was not an act for her. That was the small, but rather significant, detail upon which his entire Haymitch-approved scheme had rested on. But then…

Gale slowly chews on his bread and sips on his water in a hidden place high above ground, with nothing but the stars and a heavy conscience for company. He is well aware he ought to form a new plan, set up a strategy for this new stage, where he's completely on his own, and nothing can stop him from returning home to those who are surely awaiting his return. After all, he has got a promise to keep. But he's just so tired, and his head is spinning without focus from the day and night with insufficient food and water. Thoughts of tomorrow will have to wait until then, because for now, his whole body is slow and heavy with grief for someone whose death should mean next to nothing to him, but whose memory is still beckoning to him like spark of daylight in the empty night. He blames it on his conviction that he could get them both out of here alive, if only he were smart enough, but that doesn't make the emotion any less overpowering.

So thus it is, that he almost falls out of his tree when the Capitol seal in the sky is followed by two faces only - and the female one of them is she who he killed himself.

The Gamemakers never make a mistake, so she's somehow, somewhere, alive then. The question is: now what?


	9. Though alliances

**A/N: **Unexpected bonus chapter, voilà! If this all feels like one giant fill, that's because it is... Since I've been kind of detailed about the Games so far, I couldn't really fast-forward the rest, could I? If you like the Games and plotting, don't mind Katniss inside her own head, and don't have extreme cravings for Galeniss themes, I think you'll find this one alright.

If you, like me, can't wait for things to get a little more heated - just hang in there please, it won't be long now!

Jeez, word count running away with me... Be a darling and leave me a note in the end ;)

* * *

Katniss spends the next three days in the woods, skipping classes to get more time for the ever-increasingly harder task of providing for her currently extended family. She treks deeper than she would normally dare into the vast ocean of trees and hilly landscapes, takes greater risks by staying out later at night than what she knows to be wise, later than the mandatory viewings of the Hunger Games will permit. In truth, her last shred of patience is gone for that cursed, insufferable Capitol-made crap. Scratch that: actually, the entire Capitol and their rules and regulations can go to hell, in her opinion. She never condoned them before, obviously, but since she had to spend an entire day and night in constant panic over her best friend's near-death, she has lost every last ounce of respect toward their authority she might have ever had. She finds herself sometimes taking a leaf out of Gale's book, and screams out her frustration in long, angry tirades to no one in particular when she's alone in the depths of the woods, when she's convinced there's not even a single squirrel nearby to hear her. Her left boot got a scratch where she kicked the massive trunk of an ancient oak the other morning, and after that, she had decided verbal violence was perhaps the way to go after all, since there was no one volunteering for a thorough ass-kicking. Except maybe Rory, but she's not quite sure she'd win that fight, even if she were stupid enough to agree to it.

Katniss has never been the revolutionary type, but now that it already too late to turn off the massive onslaught of emotion that begun on the day of the Reaping, white-hot anger just keeps coming and coming. Maybe it's a form of self protection against the unfairness of the situation, a barrier against the despair that surfaces every time she comes home from the woods with no more than a half-full game bag, dreading the looks of disappointment on her mother's and Hazelle's faces, which she knows will be there, no matter how hard they try to keep it away. In an absurd way, she is almost disappointed that the open defiance against the Capitol, which flared up with Madge's act of betrayal, has died down now, after enough pressure from the law enforcement and with the revelation that is had all been just that: an act. She wants to act on her anger, wants to take them down, want fiercely to tear down the rule of the President and walk over the ashes to bring back her best friend, and make sure no one else who she cares about ever has to face the horrors of the Games, ever. But these are utopian dreams, and she knows it: the knowledge burning a dark, deep hole in her heart for each time she thinks about it.

All in all, Katniss avoids seeing more than a stray minute here and there of the Games for three days straight, and thus misses it when Gale strikes back from the paralyzed, inefficient form of himself that he has wrongly let the audience see so far in the show. She gets updates on it sure enough, hears the kid talking about it and forces herself to listen when Prim and Rory tells her what's been going on, because she knows she needs to hear it, somewhere deep inside.

Bow in hand and with bruises fading all over his body, Gale ghosts through the Arena woods, seemingly planless and aimless. He spends his time stocking up on food, taking down rabbits and strange, fat birds with his personally crafted wooden arrows – which is all he has since the quiver of arrows that had once gone with the silver bow had been stuck too far under Glimmer's body for him to retrieve it - and securing his own little personal part of the woods with snares and traps that will ensure no one will come barging in on him without tipping themselves off. The day after his escape from the Careers, he had been back to spy on their camp momentarily, most likely wondering over the fact that his district partner has not showed up as dead in the sky yet. When Madge had been nowhere to see, he had retreated back to his little basecamp, and remained there since.

Madge. She supposed she should have known about her feelings or Gale, if she had only been attentive enough to look for it, but evidently, anything regarding people's feelings had not been her strong suit up until recently. Honestly, not even _he_ had looked surprised at hearing the admission. Also, she should probably be happy that she was not trying to plot his death after all - rather his survival – but forgiveness has never been her forte. She did, however, bring herself to make one concession on her former friend's part. Her more stubborn side had protested, noting that whatever Madge chooses to do or not do is none of her business, that her fate is not her burden to bear, but somehow, she still feels that way. The moment she had stepped up to save her best friend's life, Katniss had felt like she is now in her debt. Just like she's still in that boy – Peeta's – debt, or in Gale's for that matter. She hates owing people, and guilt had tricked her into sharing her meagre income with probably the least person to need or deserve them in the entire District. She had not gone herself obviously – that would have been disastrous as she would not have been able to keep her tongue in check – but sent Prim over to the Mayor's house in town with a large paper bag of strawberries tightly clutched to her chest.

More than anything, they had been a gift of pity. From one tribute's family to another, a sign of compassion that can only be felt if you know the feeling first hand. What the Mayor and his wife had probably interpreted them as, however, would be as a sign of peace, that she and her family – and in the extent his family - at least tries not to hold a grudge, that they would not be fuelling the uprising that still lays boiling just beneath the surface in the Seam. Katniss' and Gale's fathers both had been respected men in their work life, men that the rest of the people in the unfortunate quarters looked up to and listened to when they spoke. Thus, whatever Katniss says and feels probably has some weight behind it, were she to take a side. She does not quite know what to think about that, yet, but she holds the knowledge close to heart, letting it flow like sweet nectar through her blood when she thinks about it: her one true possibility of revenge.

As for the _in love with her best friend_-part, she tried her best not to let that bother her, since it would seem Gale has decided it best to let the 'star-crossed lovers'-thing – as the commentators are calling it - fade into nothingness.

"Katniss, are you even listening still?"

The insistent voice of her little sister cuts her off from her line of thought, and brings her back to her hot and steamy little kitchen area, where she, her mother and Prim are currently having breakfast. She swallows her last piece of soggy, stale bread dipped in rabbit bone- and vegetable broth before shrugging guiltily.

"I was saying, don't you want to know how comes Madge is alive, still?"

She doesn't, not really. The less details she knows about these trice-damned Games, the happier she'll be. But incidentally, there's a small part of her that's too damn curios to ignore it completely. And the only reason she can let herself skip viewings, is because now that Gale is not constantly on the brink of death, Hazelle and her mother will watch it along with the kids. But Prim needs to hear none of this, so instead, she just motions for her to go on.

"So I was saying," she picks up her narrative of what had been shown on the evening summaries of the Games for the last two days. Nothing much seems to have happened after the "District 12 showdown", so the mandatory viewings had been few. "When Gale ran off into the woods, that big oaf of a boy – Cato – shouted for Clove and Marvel to kill Madge, and went after Gale himself. He threw like, two spears after him, but I suppose it was too dark or something for him to aim properly, because they both missed. And then he was at the beginning of the woods, and he couldn't see where Gale had gone, so he just sort of swore and stopped there – and that's when Madge screamed, and we all thought she were dead, right?"

Yup. Herself and Gale included. She wonders if perhaps it would have actually been better if she _had _dies, but then immediately feels bad.

"Well, then we saw a flashback to what had happened by the campfire. Madge was running away, and only three Careers were left there, but one of them was that guy from Four and he was obviously not on their side anymore – oh but wait, I'm getting to that!"

It's funny, and so inexplicably well constructed, thinks Katniss, how these horrible events that keep killing innocent children year after year, how they can be so abhorrent, and yet so captivating. If the Capitol can make even a little girl as sweet as Prim follow with rapt - if still unwillingly so - attention, then it's safe to say it leaves no one untouched. The irresistible allure, the suspense of life and death – it's all downright ingenious. And _wrong_, but unfortunately, they're stuck with a government that impersonates that sentiment, rather than fights it.

Prim goes on, barely pausing to chew her meagre breakfast: "That really creepy girl with the black hair, you know? She threw one of her knives after Madge, and it hit her right in her thigh, sticking there and all. It was really horrible, and then I tried not to watch it too closely but I couldn't stop and… _There was so much blood_." Her voice falters, but she seems able to keeps it down, and bites back on her emotion. "But – oh you wouldn't believe it, Madge was so brave! She only screamed once, you know the one Gale must have heard, and then she pulled the knife right out, and turned around as if she were going to fight her. But do you know what happened then?"

The young girl's eyes are wide as sauces, in a mix of admiration and horror. "That boy who let Gale go free, you know – Four – he put himself between them and her, with a spear in his hand, and said they'd have to go through him to get to her. So he fought Marvel, and Madge actually managed to hit Clove in the head with the knife, when she was distracted. Then Four struck creepy girl in the head really hard with a stone, and she passed out. Amazing, don't you think? I mean, they must have been so lucky!"

"Hmm yeah, very lucky," mumbles Katniss in assent, thinking this is all sounding a bit too good to be true. The odds must have certainly been in Madge's favour. Then another unlikely event pokes on her attention. "Hey, Prim, how come the mines didn't go off when she stepped on them, that night?"

"Oh you didn't know? I thought Rory explained that to you the other day?"

"I may not have listened too closely…" she confesses, rising to collect their schoolbags and pack down something for lunch. For Prim, it's a little box of grain and shredded rabbit meat; for herself, an apple and a small piece of the almost-too-old bread.

Prim makes a tsk-ing noise at her, but relents easily. "Okay well, the thing was, it turns out that that boy from Three had realised way before anyone else what she meant to do, and cut the chords to the landmines right before she went to step on it. Clever guy, that one. But anyway, what I was saying was –"

"Lets continue on the way to school, all right?" Katniss smiles at her sister to cushion the blow, too used to acting the mother for Prim to even think much about it.

"Right." Prim hops down from the stool by their kitchen table, shuffles over to dump her empty bowl in the sink, where their mother will deal with the washing up as soon as she has returned with more water, and runs into the bedroom to grab her black shiny school shoes. Katniss is supposed to wear something similar, but even since she outgrew that particular pair, she has had to make do with dull, brown leather woman's shoes that once belonged to a neighbour across the street, and which she had then inherited when the lady died in a lung disease from the mines. They're ugly, and wobbly on her feet, but it's all she's got apart from her hunting boots, and she's not allowed to wear them to school. Together, the two sisters leave the house, firmly close and lock the door after them, and start down the dirt road.

She feels rather unhappy about the prospect of actually going to school today, but today, skipping is not an option. Last night, Katniss had received a heads-up warning from Darius the Peacekeeper, whom she knows pretty well from the Hob, saying that there was an official complaint sent in to the Law Department regarding her absence from mandatory school viewings. In a low voice, and with his usually smiling face serious, he had told her that if she didn't show up for it the next day, there was a warrant for her arrest issued. In that moment, she was really thankful she had always made a point of being nice to the young Peacekeeper, despite his misguided attempts to flirt with her.

So here she is, all dressed up and ready for school. Much rather, she'd be far away in the woods right now, but it seems that there's only so much tolerance she can expect to be granted from the rather lax law enforcement in Twelve.

"So," continues Prim straight away, "Marvel and he-Four fought for a little while, and he was surprisingly good actually, but that spear wasn't much good against a sword, so it didn't take Marvel too long to disarm him. And then… well Rory made me look away, but he killed him. I saw his body on the ground right before the hovercraft came to collect him." One second in silence, as if the little girl is honestly mourning the life of some random boy whom she never saw more than a few short glimpses of on TV. Very much like Prim. "By then, Madge had sort of half-ran, half-stumbled all the way to the trees, and do you know what? She had stolen another thing when she was by the supply stash! She pulled this small folded cloth out of her pocket, and threw it over herself when she sat down in the middle of some bushes. I think it was some kind of camouflage, because she disappeared from the camera view completely!"

They're almost by the grey stone building that houses the district school, but Prim still has just enough time to finish her report.

"They searched for her like all night, and Cato was _so_ angry, but it was kind of dark and all, so they didn't find her. And since then, they haven't found any more tributes to kill at all."

"Let's hope it stays that way," mutters Katniss darkly. It's a good thing her sister is too used to her grumpy public attitude to mind it, because she has seen a whole lot of it lately. As they walk through the doors, splitting up to head off to different class rooms, she hugs her sister briefly, and wishes fervently that she will get to go through this day without any broadcastings interrupting her attempt to dismiss the Games.

* * *

Of course, such hope is futile in times like these. The relative peace lasts her all up until the last few minutes of lunch break, when she has long since finished her meagre meal, and sits on the end of a bench full of her peers from the Seam, as usual not talking to anyone but just sort of staring out into empty space, waiting for time to pass.

The blare of the Capitol anthem is greeted with not so much surprise as bleak sighs and a sense of inevitability. In a few short minutes, the large hall fills with students from the younger classes and the blinds drawn down, and she's once again trapped with nowhere to look but at her best friend in dire straits. Gale seems to be constantly popping up as the star of this year's Games, she thinks bitterly, and it's mostly not to his advantage. Attention may mean sponsors, but it also means a constant pressure to be doing something worthwhile showing on TV. In the last few days, the Gamemakers must have deemed his activity to be too low, as he has done little else than the basics: hunt, eat, sleep, keep out of the way of other tributes. In short, sustain and survive. The commentators have, rightly so, expressed their surprise over why he chooses to stay his ground there, why he hasn't gone off to find Madge, as he is obviously aware she's alive somewhere in the Arena. Katniss hopes that means he has finally gotten a grip on the situation, and is now solely focused on winning - not side-tracked by petty details, like emotions. Over all, the whole thing is extremely confusing: why on earth would someone as practical and straightforward as Gale put so much effort into nonsense dramas, that has nothing to do with survival? A small, rational part of her mind has whispered to her many times that maybe he would not think himself enough to win the Games in the traditional way - not ruthless, cruel or strong enough. But she has yet to figure out how he thinks there could be any other way.

Whatever his own thought may have been, they are redundant now, as the composition of the Games is once again set on making his life explicitly harder in the blink of an eye. The cameras show Gale poised in a tree, watching from above as the three remaining Careers stride into his line of vision, making straight for one of his carefully constructed traps. His face is strangely scrunched up in half fascination, half displeased anticipation. In his dark pants and wind jacket, he looks a lot like one of those large, black jungle cats that Katniss had sometimes seen on television in animations. Coiled, ready to spring at the slightest alarm. She understands his expression, can correctly read out the willingness to see if his traps work as well on people as on animals – his usual prey, and the reluctance for the Careers to find out where he's been hiding from them. Since none of the other tributes are likely to posses any skills beyond what they've already shown, and since Gale has not yet let on what earned him an 11 in scoring, they'll know it's him. Then, they'll track him down with everything they've got, and it would be a miracle for him to escape another time. So despite the allure of the trap, probably the smartest thing he could do is to somehow disarm it before they get there and then disappear into the forest unknown.

What complicates the picture is that, one again, the Careers have found and captured another tribute, and this time, it just so happens to be that wisp of a girl from Eleven. A murmur spreads through the crowd at the sight, which surely makes any sane, feeling human being squirm with unease. What are they going to do with her? The twelve-year-old hangs like a doll between Clove and Marvel, not yet visibly hurt but with undisguised fear in her large, brown eyes.

In a sudden pang of remorse, Katniss' eyes shoot out over the sea of faces assembled in the large room, locating the blond braids of her little sister further to the back. Like a constant shadow these days, Rory stands beside her, arms clasped across his slim chest. Prim's hair is as fair as the other girl's is dark, but despite that, there's this sort of uncanny likeness between them that unsettles her. Only then can she breathe out, and like commanded by some out-of-body force, her head turns inevitably back toward the screen.

What she sees, is Gale formulating a plan in his mind. His eyes have fixed on something farther down the intruders' path, higher up than himself in the tree tops. The cameras zoom in, and her eyes widen a fraction when she recognises the object: a bees' nest, swollen up to abnormal size and distinguishable by its unnatural stark yellow colour. Tracker jackers – the Capitol mutant version of wasps, whose sting will send the unlucky receiver into a frenzy of hallucinations, if not to death. Of course, the Gamemakers _would_ make sure the Arena is bursting with hidden traps and obstacles. If stumbled upon, they mean a fight for life – if used rightly, a weapon.

His eyes dart around, down to the four people on the forest floor, calculating their speed, over to the tree. In a smooth, silent movement, he unhinges the bow from his back, draws one of his wooden arrows from a strap at his arm, and aims carefully. She knows Gale is a good shot, after all she has taught him herself, but this will be a tricky one. Not to mention the stress of knowing he's about to set loose a bunch of livid, murderous oversized wasps, who will be just as inclined to go after him, as the closest person.

She sees him inhale, once, twice, three times, then slowly blow out all the air from his lungs, and fire. The arrow shoots out with a dull thumping noise, which makes the other tributes stop dead in their tracks, heads whirling around to determine its origin. The cameras show it zipping through the air, in a straight line for its target, and cut straight through the fragile tissue at the base where the nest sticks to the tree. A second arrow launches itself right by the other, and like a natural explosive bomb, the whole thing crashes to the ground, only a small distance away from where the Careers are standing.

The thunderous buzzing from half a hundred Trackers fills the air at once, growing steadily stronger, more irritated as the wasps emerge from the shattered remains of their nest. They move too quickly for the eye to follow, jetting out to fight a war on whoever dared disturb they peace. To begin with, whoever is closest by will have to make do, and much shouting erupts from the two tributes from District 1, who were unlucky enough to be right there. No swords can protect them from these, and Cato and Clove run screaming from the scene in no time, taking half of the irritated hive with them. Before they even disappear from sight, Gale is down from his tree in a flash, running up against the amassing furious bees, and Katniss is cursing his damned chivalrous pride in a low mumble which is lost in the general commotion from the speakers.

The idiot Marvel is stuck in some sort of panicked fight with a cloud of Trackers, trying to ward them off with shrill shouts and only succeeding in getting his hands stung repeatedly. Gale pushes him aside, snatches up the small figure next to him, and runs straight into the depths of the forest, the girl slung over one shoulder to free an arm. From their view back home, the audience can see Marvel crawling into an upright position, and crawl on his hands and feet into the forest the other way, swatting at attacking bees all around his head and already starting to rant incoherently – beginning to drift off into the dark hallucinations of their venom, no doubt.

Then they get to watch Gale and the little girl again, as he's still running and she's warding off the last few Trackers that are still after them. Then she's pointing at something over his shoulder, screaming for him to stop, and pounding on his shoulder insistently when he won't. Strangely, she does not seem afraid of him in any way, or like she's doubting his good intention in the least - she just really wants him to stop.

"I have the cure here! Look, that plant there, we need to stop!"

Gale actually does stop, eventually, and sets her down to look at her like she's grown three heads. Maybe she has, in his vision, because Katniss can see clearly at least a half-dozen large welts beginning to swell up on his arms, neck and chest where he's been stung. His eyes are wide, unfocused and glassy, and a sheen of sweat is forming on his brow. Jumping from foot to foot, he looks just barely able to control his body to stay in place. For her part, the girl only has two visible ones, but it's probably more than enough for her small frame, and she's shaking like a leaf where she's standing.

"Stay here, okay? I'm going to go collect some of them and put them on our wounds so that-"

From above, one single remaining Tracker Jacker appears like a large, yellow and black bullet.

"Watch out!" shouts the girl, but Gale's flailing arms does very little to dodge the small creature, and he roars in pain as it gets him in the large glitch where his pants are torn from the fire.

As it would seem, one more sting is one too many, and loosing the last shreds of control, he sprints madly away through the woods, not his normal, velvet-footed self, but thundering like a bolting horse, headfirst at full speed.

"Oh no," sighs his new companion, who seems to be taking this whole ordeal with unnatural calm for someone so young. She plops a few leaves from the bush by which she is standing into her mouth, and quickly proceeds to pull out the stings from each of her two punctures. Angry red marks form on top of the already large swellings, but she seems unfazed by them, as if this happens to her all the time and she's used to dealing with the aftermath of Tracker Jacker stings. Maybe she is.

From her backpack, she pulls of a clean roll of bandage, and spitting out the sticky paste that was once leaves, she spreads it over her wounds before wrapping them up. It's a curious procedure, but as soon as it is done, her shoulders visibly relax and she breathes out as if the pain has gone away. Katniss makes a note to herself of asking Prim about that later.

Then the dark-haired, suntanned little girl from Eleven straightens her clothes, and starts jogging off into the woods, following the havoc that Gale has made in his venom-induced panic. From the way she has collected a good few extra leaves in her pocket, and by the way her smile is too sweet to be real in the Arena, Katniss is convinced she is about to help him, repay his kindness in helping her escape from the Careers' vicious grasp. She has confidence in this one, she thinks: despite her littleness and her obvious uselessness in battle, she seems full of surprises. Anyone who can survive this far in the Games must be somewhat resourceful, after all.

The clip ends with a shot of Clove and Cato back by the lake, battling their last, dogged pursuers with bats, before diving into the water. They have the sense to pull out their stings, at least, before they collapse in unconsciousness in the thick grass. Whatever became of their third ally, the story doesn't tell for now. Katniss really hopes he dies a slow, agonizing death by Tracker venom.

* * *

In the jostle to get out of the lunchroom, she finds herself eye to eye with that friend of Gale's again, the one who had been speaking to her a few weeks before, after the Reaping. He catches her in a pensive, rather good mood where she is too distracted by what just happened to be really angry or grumpy, like she usually would be. And besides, there's something about this guy – Thom, yes that's his name – that makes her kind of at ease, like they could probably make good friends if the circumstances would allow for it. He's a smiley kind of guy, but not in an irritating, obnoxious way, but rather always with a slight quirk of his mouth that says he's good-natured, and deals with any hardship that comes his way without letting them trouble him too much. In other words, not the brooding type, like she and Gale would be considered.

"Hiya," he greets her, falling into step beside her as they walk down the corridor to the classrooms. He's not even a head taller than she is, and she turns her head to the side, watching him with mild surprise in her eyes. In return, he smiles a little wider, clearly expecting a much colder greeting expression. "How's the luck with the, you know – the haul?"

Katniss raises her eyebrows, but realises she shouldn't be too surprised by the question. Of course Gale's friends _would_ know about his illegal free-time activities, perhaps even talk to him about it. Come to think of it, the entire town probably know, as they emerge together day after day into the black market, with loaded game bags. It's not exactly subtle. She decides she may as well put a little trust into this guy.

She clears her throat, and shrugs one-sidedly. "Not great. Too hot outside."

The dark-haired boy nods thoughtfully, eyes far away. "You getting by?" He doesn't look at her while asking this, clearly embarrassed to even voice the question, which is too private for comfort.

They come to a halt by the next double doors, by now almost left alone under the fluorescent white light of the hallway. Katniss scrapes her foot along the stone floor, and nods quickly. "Yeah."

"Alright," answers Thom, looking sort of relieved at this. "Just so you know, what I said before still stands…"

She hesitates for a long second, biting her lip thoughtfully. "Actually…"

He looks down at her, his eyes a mix between surprise and hesitation.

"Well, at the Market, some people have started this kind of – collection. For Gale, you know. It's not gonna be much but - uh, it's something. Maybe you could spread the word to the other guys down in the mines?"

His eyebrows twitch in surprise, but soon afterwards, he nods absentmindedly. "Yeah, great idea. I mean, it's not gonna be much, like you said, but- "

Katniss is relieved she dared to ask, but she can't shake the feeling that there's something in the boy's eyes that she can't place. They are too far away, too deep in though for this to be about just a bit of money.

"I – uh, we know. But any help is something."

The boy looks like he's about to say something more: opens his mouth and furrows his brows in the beginning of a sentence, but is cut off by the loud blare calling everyone to class.

They share one last nod, and then walk off in separate directions through the corridors. Katniss has a distinct feeling there's something going on, which she should know about, but then again, she's much too busy to care about other people's business. Just two more hours of the unending fountain of knowledge that is Dynamite Theory, and then she's off to the woods, thank heavens. Today is even overcast and rather dry, so with a little luck, she'll bring home a proper meal for her family and Gale's this evening. She pushes her worry over his potential current condition out of her mind, with the conviction that he's big and tough enough to ward of a little venom, and that the little girl from Eleven will take good care of him.

By now, she's even gotten past the worst of her anger and betrayal from the Interviews, when he had dismissed her wrong-directed feelings in a few simple sentences. It's simple really, to pretend like none of that ever happened, like the slight tingle on her lips that she sometimes feels in still moments on a hunt or right before she falls asleep at night, is all just the remains of a dream. After more than two weeks of insomnia and neglecting meals, she had been simply too tired to care the least about her own emotions, and then, finally, in sheer exhaustion she had slept through a whole night. When she woke up, three days ago now, she had resolved that the whole ordeal was all over and forgotten about. Gale is her best friend, nothing more, and it will stay that way even if – when- he makes it back home. She will lock away this new, shiny form he has taken before her eyes as of lately, and restore him to the old, blurry figure of her trusted hunting partner, who would never dream of kissing her, or any other nonsense.

_But_, whispers a small voice in the back of her mind, _if he returns, will he even be your best friend any more? He'll be rich, so he won't need you anymore for survival, and he'll move into town and get a better life for himself and his family. Where will you be then? _

That doesn't matter, she steels herself. She is Katniss Everdeen, and she needs no one, and least of all, she needs happiness, because she's never known it anyway. Now would he please just hurry home, so that the overhanging pressure of feeding an extra four mouths could finally lift from her shoulders?


	10. Bright is the night

**A/N:** Here's a mixed pot of a chapter, which hold at least some essential parts, and some heartfelt ones along with a whole lot of plot-driving-forward without much flare. Since I have an obsession of naming the chapters correctly, I had a hard time coming up with anything for this one, it's kind of scattered! But either way, hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to let me know your thoughts afterwards :)

I can't remember if I've said it before, but thanks so much to those guest reviewers who I can't thank in a PM!

And to guest reviewer Amy: special thanks for that nice comment, and for reading :) And i'd say maybe... two more chapters, then you'll get your wish fulfilled, even if I think you may be in for a surprise...

Now, who's in the mood for another familiar character to enter the scene? (temporarily, mind you, don't fret...! )

* * *

For the next two days, the broadcasts from the Games are few and far apart. The mandatory viewings are filled instead with much discussion and analysing of the recent events, starring different important Capitol people who are specially invited to the studio. One by one, the remaining nine tributes are evaluated for hour upon hour, from their smallest move to their skill set and their chances of winning. In short, it's a quiet few days, despite the fact that nine is a rather large number of tributes left alive after a week and a half in the Games. Most surprising is the girl from Five, who has barely been spotted at all since the beginning, and who has been doing very little besides sneaking food from the Careers and dodging the various dangers that the Gamemakers send her way. She's obviously clever, that one.

Then, finally, on the second evening when Katniss comes home from the woods, she is greeted by Vick, flinging the door open with an urgent call:

"Katniss, come in and watch, fast. He's waking up!"

She leaves her for once full bag to Hazelle, who receives it with a kind smile, and waves away her offer to help scaling the fish she's trapped in a river. So instead, she plops down on the floor in front of the Hawthornes' television, and watches her friend resurface from the dead.

He looks a mess, where he's lying curled up into a ball beneath an uprooted tree: twigs and leaves litter his hair, he's got streaks of mud all over his pants and up his face, shallow cuts on his arms and hands. Nothing major, though, since all of his previously gruesome Tracker Jacker welts are bandaged up and down to a minimum swelling. He sits up, momentarily disoriented, staring at his hands and feet as if they're strangers to him. One finger picks, mystified, at the bandage across the palm of his hand, and he's just about to undo the binding to see what's underneath, when the small figure poised above him on top of the fallen log, speaks up.

"Let it be, it's not fully healed yet."

Gale starts, jumps up on his feet and swings around in an almost comic display of surprise. He winces as the sudden movement, but steadies himself against the log. His eyes narrow, regarding the girl in front of him. It takes him two full attempts before any sound escapes his unused, dried out vocal cords.

"What are these bandages?"

"They're mashed-up leaves from a bush." Rue reaches over to him, a flask in her slim hand. "We use them all the time back home, when the harvesters get stung."

Another suspicious moment passes, but then he lets his shoulders relax a bit, and hops up to sit on the fallen tree beside her. After the sudden movement, he grasps at his head, clearly not fully recovered yet from the shock his body has been in. He takes a long, grateful swig of water.

"How long was I out?"

The girl twists a piece of straw in her hand, tracing patterns with it on the trunk before her. "Just over two days," she states, her eyes darting to meet his when he utters a small, incredulous noise at the information.

"And you've been here all that time?"

"I had nothing better to do, really," she answers matter-of-factly. "And besides, it only seems fair that I would look out for you, when you did the same for me."

Gale stares at her with obvious surprise, almost admiration. "What your name, anyway?" he asks her, not even trying to hide the fact that he never paid attention to it before.

"Rue," she states her name, not letting on if she's offended by his lack of detail memory.

"All right, Rue," he says then, "why don't you fill me in on where we are and what I missed during my little nap." He smiles, and it's a caring kind of smile, the sort he saves for people who actually deserve them. In return, she grins a toothy grin, and just like that, they're friends.

Gale seems to take an immediate liking to her, much like Katniss had when she first saw the girl in action, because he doesn't question her presence by his side as he sets off back to his previous basecamp, to retrieve a few little things he'd left there from before. Along the way, he takes down one of those strange birds, and Rue points out that they're common in her district, even if she's rarely had any of its meat. When later, after they've made a temporary camp by the riverside, he hands her an entire leg to chew on, her brown eyes go as wide as saucers.

"I can eat the whole thing?" she questions him, staring in wonder as he tears into his own leg without further ado.

"'Course," comes Gale's mumbled answer, around a great chunk of meat in his mouth. "There's more, too."

Then, when night comes, and Gale had taken a quick swim in the stream to wash off all grime and dirt from his mangled body, they share a branch to sleep on high up in an oak, and he lets her lean her curly head on his arm as she sleeps, curled up in a thin sleeping bag which she had stuffed in her backpack.

"That was such a good bedtime story," smiles Prim, her face completely free of worry for the first time in ages. Beside her on the sofa, Vick is already asleep, his head lolling partly against her upper arm. In turn, she has her head leaned on Rory's shoulder, and all in all, the three of them make a rather funny picture.

Even Katniss has to relinquish a small smile at the sight, and at the realisation that for once, a day in the Games had not been a day spent in Hell. The motions of walking, hunting, washing and feeding himself must have seemed comforting and familiar to Gale, just like they did to her back at home, like something they would do together any day of the week, in their own special little bubble. Something inside her stirs when she thinks about it, but it's not completely uncomfortable, as long as she ignores the facts of where he actually is and what lies in front of him still. And also, the sight of him asleep side by side with his new little ally is heart warming. She understands why he couldn't just leave her to her destiny when he saw her with the Careers: no matter how much she wishes Gale would just be practical, she knows his compassion is a large part of who he is, and she wouldn't have him any other way. In fact, that soft spot in him for his siblings, and his fierce protection for them, is what she l… _admires_ about him. Strives to do just as well herself, that's it.

Sighing, Katniss drags her tired legs upright, stretching her aching back out and realises that the movement makes her pants hike down on her hips, which is strange, since they're relatively new and all. The semi-elastic material of the leggings shouldn't begin to slack for a long time yet. She inspects them, but can find no inclination the material is damaged when she looks closer. Unfortunately, that can only mean one thing.

"They're too big for you already," frowns her mother, who has come up to her in the doorway and notices what she's doing.

"But…" she starts, frowning as she counts back on the days and weeks, takes stock of time and food supplies. It's only been a couple of weeks, and she's already losing weight at a frightening tempo, weight that she certainly doesn't have left over to spare. Panicked, she spins around to inspect Prim, takes her face in her hands to feel her normally fleshy cheeks, pinches her ribs in a movement too sudden and forceful.

"Ouch!" exclaims her little sister, swatting at her hands but staying still in place and gazing up at her.

She moves on to look closer at Rory and Vick, who are now both standing with their mother by the kitchen. They all look tired, a little more hollow around the eyes, but otherwise as fine as kids can look, coming from the Seam.

"You're all okay?" she asks, in a low, concerned mumble, relieved when they nod their heads.

Her mother and Hazelle are both watching her with a knowing look, but none of them look too worried, which calms her.

"Worry about yourself instead," says her mother in a low voice, gently touching her shoulder as she passes her on the way out the door. "Please be careful."

Katniss almost blushes, not liking being the centre of attention all of a sudden, and certainly not liking the worry she sees in her sister's eyes on her account. However, she knows they are right. It's the beginning of summer, after a long and prosperous spring, and now is the time to stock up on everything needed to survive the winter – body fat included. She's meant to gain weight, not lose any more of it, but in the midst of constant stress and heavy spirits, she tends to forget about eating, letting the kids have the best stuff always and forgetting completely that she, too, is little more than a child and still growing. She vows to herself to try a little harder from now on, since what use will she be to anyone if she's too weak to hunt?

* * *

Gale's alliance with the little girl from Eleven turns out to be rather short lived, but manages to produce some truly great results while it lasts. Midday next day in school, the students are once again called into the lunchroom, to witness the first of Gale's truly great plans executed. He and Rue have stacked up huge pyres of firewood in scattered places around the Cornucopia, and their plan seems to be to distract the Careers away from their camp, where they've been holed up for several days while healing from the Tracker Jacker stings. There are still, unfortunately, three of them: Cato, Clove and Marvel, along with the District 3 boy, who is miraculously still alive since he's proved very useful to them in all his technical knowledge.

Gale and Rue part ways at the last pyre, promising they'll meet up again in the evening to celebrate their takedown of the Career's supplies. An encouraging mumble passes through the room at the revelation of their plan, since this is something the people of Eleven and Twelve are fully in support of: the sentiment being that if we don't get to eat whatever we please, neither should they. While Gale closes the distance between the fire and the Cornucopia, they are shown a view of the Careers, bickering about what to do next. Their hunt for tributes to kill has become distinctly harder, since none of those left will be easily taken down. It's a mystery they have managed to stick together all three of them for this long, what with the growing tension of knowing only one of them can win.

Once Gale reaches the edge of their clearing, it's not long before the first chimney of smoke begins to rise up in the distance. The tributes in his sigh react just like he had wanted them to: they run straight for it, even taking with them the boy from Three now that their numbers have dwindled. Then he goes to work, having already figured out something is up with the uneven plots of land where the landmines are buried. While he puzzles over it, he sees the remaining tribute from Five rush into the scene before him, jump across the distance to the supplies in a very peculiar pattern, grab a few things and scuttle off, and that's when the pieces finally fall into place for him.

It takes him all the remaining five arrows he's got, but eventually, he shoots down a sack of apples on top of the pile, and they roll down the short hill with thunderous finality. In short, it creates one hell of an explosion, and the pressure wave throws him backwards forcefully, only barely holding onto his consciousness.

_Again_, thinks Katniss bitterly, by now not so much scared as angry and irritated by the way he risks his life over and over. When Cato comes barrelling into the scene a few short moments later, her heart picks up speed never the less, since the hiding place under a bush, where Gale has crawled in, is bordering on disastrous.

Luckily, the Career is more focused on taking out his fury on the closest possible subject, than on finding out who was behind the sabotage. And once the boy from Three is dead, morbidly killed by a savage twist to his fragile neck, his remaining partner agrees that whoever did this, must be dead too. Marvel is nowhere to be seen.

She still sits on the very edge on her stool, leaned forward in anticipation, until she has seen Gale crawl flat along the ground into a safer spot, bleeding heavily from one ear, and until they have seen Rue being captured by that hateful boy from District 1, when the Capitol seal shows up in the sky and it's over for now. Grinding her teeth together, she would curse the damn Games out loud all over again if only she were alone in the hall.

To hell with afternoon classes: she needs fresh air and freedom.

But also this day, her path out of the school building is halted, when she hears her name called by an unfamiliar voice. She turns around to see Peeta Mellark walking up to her, clutching a brown paper bag in one hand and wearing an expectant expression on his open face. She stands frozen in place, like paralyzed from the surreal feeling of this situation. He has _never_ in the years since their only interaction, _ever_ said a word to her. Always only watched her from afar, following her with his eyes until her nerves would be twitching with annoyance. And guilt. Because the main reason she hates it when he stares at her, is because of the memories that she is forced to recall when she looks at him. She owes him her life, and the life of her little sister, and that is a debt she can never repay, to her great regret.

"Katniss?" he calls again, superfluously, when he reaches her. He's not the little scrawny boy from her memory anymore, that's for sure, but his eyes are still that same startling colour of blue. "Hi," he says, smiling good-naturedly. "I wanted to talk to you for a minute, if that's okay?"

She regards him, frowning without meaning to, for a moment. Surprisingly, he's not put off by her cool attitude, but keeps his smile in place.

"You're going to miss the start of class," she grudgingly points out, hesitant to even open her mouth to speak to him. She does not want to deal with this boy, with all his background where she is concerned, and with his obvious Merchant class looks: well fed and friendly.

"So are you," he notices, tilting his big blond head slightly to the side and continuing to gaze at her in that unsettling way.

She has to look away, focusing her eyes instead on her ground beneath his feet. He's wearing shiny, but obviously inherited, school shoes, she notices. "No, I'm not," she counters, setting her jaw in that stubborn way that indicated she does not wish to be contradicted.

"But… Oh." Peeta shifts his weight from one foot to another, and she hears him take a deep intake of breath before getting to the point. "So, what I wanted to say was, I'm sorry things have become so hard for you."

Katniss' eyes snap up to his face, her eyebrows mashed together. _Hard?_ What does he know about hard? Her life has always been _hard_, in the most literal sense of the word, and these last few weeks have been nothing but an incline in the depth of the problems. But she can see, despite her unwillingness to do so, that he means well, so she tries to control her voice when she says: "I don't need your pity."

"It's not pity," he says, voice gentle and low. "It's no more than a kind word."

Her normally stony expression seems suddenly impossible to recall, so she's stuck in a sort of permanent wrinkled frown. "Well," she fidgets, drawing her toes along the lines of the floor tiles, "you've been kind enough to me as it is, in life." This is her way of saying thank you, respectfully and without fuss, but he doesn't buy it.

"There's no such thing as enough kindness," he counters, and then holds forth the paper-wrapped bundle in his hand.

Katniss is suddenly very thankful that they're the only two left outside. She regards it wearily, suspecting what's inside but still asking: "What's this?" There's a hard note to her voice, still.

"I think you know what it is. I want you to have it." His wide eyes are holding hers in place, and she can see the silent plea in them not to make him go back on his offer.

But of course, her first impulse is to do just that. "No," she whispers, voice failing her when it's suddenly all too much for her: anger, irritation, hunger, and now this. "I don't want it. I don't want to owe you more."

His eyebrows shoot up. "Owe me? You don't owe me, Katniss." Her name is like velvet on his tongue, like he really enjoys saying it to her face. It makes her decidedly uneasy.

"But, you know, for… before," she mutters, unable to look at him again. She glances up when she hears him chuckle softly, the noise incomprehensive to her under the circumstances.

"I did that because _I_ wanted to," he spells is out to her, and he smells like warmth and life itself when he spreads his arms before her in animation.

She frowns deeper, and realises she's biting her lip. Why is she still standing here? "But I never even said thanks," she mumbles, all the while feeling her irritation over her own words increase. The vulnerability of the situation makes her feel weak, easily beguiled.

Peeta Mellark chuckles in that warm way of his again, and answers her simply: "Then thank me now, and take this, please."

Despite her fighting with her nails and teeth, she can feel her resolve slipping, as sure as gravity or the sun rising each morning. Her last defence is a feeble question: "Why?"

"Because you need it. I can see that just as well as you know it." He looks at her meaningfully, his eyes gently daring her to contradicting the truth of that statement.

"But it's too much, and I can't repay –"

"A gift is not for repaying. And if you won't take it for yourself, then give it to your sister, or to those other kids you're taking care of."

He has her there, and he knows it, by the slightly smug look of him. When he holds out the bag to her once again, she sighs, but reaches out her hand to accept it. Her whole being is squirming in unease, and she can feel shame colour her cheeks, but it's no use: a yes is a yes, no matter if spoken or not. Peeta retains his hold of the handle a second longer than necessary, making her hand inevitably connect with his when she grips it. Her eyes, guarded, meet his in a short moment, which seem to stretch out impossibly.

"Thank you," she mumbles, barely parting her lips through her stone-set jaw.

His answering smile is bigger than any she has ever seen on his face, or on basically anyone's face for that matter, making her feel almost compelled to return the gesture. But she doesn't, and he steps back, hands falling to his sides as he half-turns to head back into the corridor.

"You're welcome," he says, and there's something shining in his eyes when he looks at her for once last moment, something like hope, which she won't even begin to puzzle over. "See you around."

And with that, he walks through the door, and leaves her standing in the school yard, perplexed and flustered and with a thoroughly queasy feeling spreading through her stomach.

* * *

As reluctant as the gift had been, she can't help but indulge in the scene of surprised laughter and exultant smiles from the four kids, as she brings out fresh soft bakery bread to go with the dinner stew that evening. The atmosphere around the crowded kitchen table in the Hawthornes' house is the lightest it has been in a long time, as they're able to forget for a few short moments how despairing life has become, and remember again what it feels like to be full, and warm, and surrounded by people who make you laugh and whose affection you hold. Katniss remains mostly silent, happy to watch the rest of them interact and let her mind relax for a while. No one asks her where the bread came from, just like they never question from where she brings in the resources that keep them fed, clothed and warm, either because they don't want to know or because they let her secrets alone, she doesn't know. She stuffs down thick slices of the semi-white loaves, dipped into the remaining sauce from the unusually flavoursome stew that Hazelle had cooked, and then leans back in her chair, feeling dense and sleepy, satisfied despite her lingering grief over the origin of the meal.

A little while later, after she has insisted on washing the dishes to let the other two women linger by the table, engaged in some kind of simple game that Vick has started in a fit of new energy, the semblance of normality is shattered once more, as it's apparently time for the Games to be broadcasted again.

This time, the story told in real time is not a pleasant, soothing one. They get to watch as Gale rises from his makeshift hideout, covered in pine needles, dirt and a fair amount of blood, and sets of to locate his little partner. It takes him an agonizingly long time to find his way through the woods, as he is for some reason extra careful with his steps, and keeps sweeping his head from side to side to watch for dangers. From the way he keeps fidgeting with his left ear - the one with dried blood all around it - it would seem something is up with his hearing, and it obviously bothers him. She has no trouble sympathising, knowing full well how important all senses are to a hunter, hearing as much as eyesight, to pick up on all the little signs of unrest or danger closing in.

Repeating a simple four-note whistle that he and Rue had agreed on earlier to the mockingjays above, Gale locates the right area where she would have last been, but finds only the third fire still in place, unlit. In alarm, he draws out his bow, scans the forest around him carefully through the drawn-out shadows of twilight. It's almost dark, and apparently getting colder in the Arena, she can tell from the clear light of stars filtering through the treetops above him. Together with the half moon, they illuminate the forest with a cold, steely silver colour, blending with the tendrils of mist rising from the ground to form an eerie landscape, where seemingly anything could be lurking behind each root and stub.

When Gale does find Rue, it's already too late. She's hopelessly tangled in a mess of net and ties, lying shivering on the ground in a small clearing not far from the third fire site. Katniss is hit by a cold, churning feeling inside - overtaken by a sudden certainty of how this is going to play out. Getting up from the floor, she shuffles her feet over to where her hunting bag is slumped on the floor by the door. Things can be as exciting as they wish on TV, but she will watch only as much as is inevitable.

Taking out a small jar of polishing fat, she grabs her worn old hunting boots, and sits down under the gas light by the kitchen table to shine and mend them with meticulous care. She wonders silently how the others can stand it, how Vick, Rory, Prim and her mother can just sit there and watch, as if what happens is some fancy drama with actors who only pretend to get hurt and die, and not the final hours of real children, among which one of their own. Perhaps she's the one who doesn't get it, she thinks, maybe they're all braver and more though-skinned than she is, despite their youth and their fragility.

Either way, she concentrates as hard as she can on the old, shiny leather in her hands, brushes away each tiny fracture in its smooth surface, just like her father had once taught her to do it. But every few moments, her head snaps up at some noise or some flash of motion on the screen, too distracting to ignore. So that way, she sees as Gale cuts the frightened little girl loose from the net, only to be intercepted by the arrival of her captor: Marvel, who should have died from multiple Tracker Jacker stings, but who seems to have a stronger mind than one would have thought from all his bickering.

She hears him laugh, and say: "I knew you'd show up, sooner or later, Twelve." She hears Gale respond, evidently trying to draw out the moment by keeping the Career talking for as long as possible. It occurs to her that he is out of arrows, and she's unsure if he has any other weapons at the ready with him. In her sudden bout of nerves, she accidentally polishes a particular spot of her right boot too forcefully, making it more worn than restored. She swears under her breath, but then her head is once again snapped around to the television, as she hears several simultaneous cries of alarm. Before she can even really grasp what has happened, Rue is down on the ground with a spear protruding from her slim chest, blood colouring her clothes a silvery shade in the night time brilliance. At the same time, Marvel goes down too, dead before he hits the ground with a knife lodged deep in his throat.

For a split second, all she can think about is how she should have been there to shield her little sister's eyes from the sight of so much death, even though logically, Prim has seen much worse before. But she hears muffled sobs from the sofa, and with a heavy heart, she gets up from her chair, and walks over there, to find Prim hiding her face in both hands, curled up against their mother, who has Vick in a firm hold with her other arm. She sits down on the armrest, runs a hand gently over her sister's blond hair, and folds both her arms around her narrow shoulders, as she turns into her shoulder instead. Sitting on the floor, Rory leans his head on Prim's legs, in a gesture half comforting and half drained.

_Two kills for that one knife, both from the same district, _it flies through her mind. The thought horrifies her, until she thinks _self defence_, it was either them or him. It hasn't even occurred before then to Katniss, that she should be happy Gale has lived through yet another close encounter with enemy tributes, but now she can't help but to drink in the image of him moving around on screen, unharmed except for his ear and a few scratches and bruises.

She watches him kneel down beside Rues fallen form, and she looks so small and young in this moment, that her heart constricts painfully despite her vow to herself not to care for other tributes than Gale. One way or another, she had to die, but what does that matter when the real injustice was done way before this moment, in the moment when her name was chosen among all those other in the Reaping bowl: or even before that, when in the past their Government decided to take out their revenge on the Districts by yearly blood offerings. She feels hot pressure build up behind her eyes, but tries to take comfort from the fact that at least the girl has him there in her last few moments, to hold her hand and stroke her hair out of her white face with warm fingers against her icy skin. He mutters small, comforting words to her, but they do very little, since he seems to be on the brink of despair himself. They have known each other for only a few days, but his instinct for protectiveness is fierce and strong, and she can tell from his crumbled face that he feels like he has failed his ally.

Katniss watches as the starlight shines brighter and brighter in the deepening night, while the light in Rue's eyes fade bit by bit, as if her brilliant vivaciousness is somehow soaked up by the atmosphere and there intensified. With her mess of dark curls spread out beneath her head, secure on her partner's thighs, she whispers out a request to him:

"Can you sing me a song?"

Gale smiles remorsefully down at her, shakes his head a little. "No… no, I can't sing." His voice turns even softer, his eyes a shade more sorrowful, when he continues: "But I know a girl who has a voice so beautiful, that when she sings, all the mockingjays stop and listen."

The little girl smiles, and opens her eyes to look up at him. "Madge?" she guesses, innocence shining in her large brown eyes.

A haunting shadow slithers across his eyes, but he breathes out a pained breathy laugh. "No. But I'm sure Madge can sing very beautifully, too."

Her eyes close again at that, and her last few words are so faint that the microphones only barely catch up on the sound. "Will you please try, anyway?"

In a voice that is far from steady, and even further from true to tune, Gale strikes up the first words from a song that Katniss recognises too well for it to be a coincidence. It's an old lullaby, one that she and Prim would always ask to hear when they were small children to put them to sleep. Their father said he'd learnt it off his grandmother, when he in turn was just a little boy, and he was sure it had existed a long time before even that.

He sings it with stumbling precision, like it's something he has heard only once or twice, but which stuck to his memory with a strong impression. The idea comes to her that maybe he has heard it from her, has at some point walked in on her singing in the woods, like she will sometimes do when convinces she's on her own. She doesn't know whether to be slightly indignant or flattered by the fact that he knows it, and that it comes to his mind in a situation as fragile and significant as this one. Hearing it in his deep, rather musical tone does strange things to her insides, and soon she finds tears trailing hot streaks down her cheeks, falling onto Prim's head before she can stop them.

Heartsick and completely fed up with this never ending madness, she wows to sneak out to the woods again early in the morning, and spare herself any more of the crumbling, all-consuming sadness that is taking hold of her body. She will see no more, will bare no more of this mental torture, and wishes fervently for it all to be over soon, so things can go back to the normal rhythm of everyday life. Normal worries, like food for the day, seems so simple and practical in comparison, that she almost don't mind them anymore. But in a world where twelve-year-olds are allowed to die for the sake of nothing at all, without even a chance at the rest of their lives, how can anything be right? What is the point in doing as you're told, or playing by anyone else's rules, when there's no peace, and no sense of right and wrong that guides them?

Then she catches herself, because what practical good will these kinds of thoughts do her now, in the midst of all that's going on? None, that's it. Just like she sees Gale steel himself to get up on the screen, she must lock up this feeling of immense injustice that will only cloud her judgement, and focus on what's next. Lucky for her, what eases her anxiety over all that she's had to witness in the past weeks is also what brings them food on the table.

When she goes to sleep that night, the bed unusually spacious since Prim is curled up with their mother in lingering sadness, she hums quietly the melody still in her ears to herself. She can hear the words in his voice still, like a record on repeat that won't let her forget. If she blocks out the horrid images that come with it, she can imagine him singing it to her only, a fantasy so comforting that she can feel her whole body go limp and drifting in no time.

Right on the edge of sleep, in a state of half-dream where visions blur and reality mixes strangely with imagination, the thought appears: if she means nothing to him after all, like she is inclined to think is true, why would he bring up such an intimate memory of her, in a moment of emotions as strong as that? Her heart flutters, just once, but then sleep courses over her, drowns all conscious thought.


	11. Only love can break your heart

**(Nervous) author note: **Alright guys, remember that note I wrote for the first chapter? If you don't, let me remind you that it promised heartbreak, and angsty, angsty pieces, before any kind of happy ending can even be in sight... So please keep that in mind, and don't hate on me too bad after this chapter! And most importantly: don't give up on the story, it'll all work out... eventually.

Next update may be a week now, depending on things like the weather and the amount of beer to be had while I go abroad to visit a friend ;) Enjoy the extra long chapter until then!

And as usual, i'd like to give a huge thanks to all of you who review! You're awesome!

* * *

"There's forty gold pieces, all in all. I counted every single penny," says Greasy Sae, the woman who runs the soup stall in the District 12 shoddy-business marketplace, the Hob.

A gold piece isn't really made of gold, it is only some kind of durable metal forged into large, flat coins and coated in a brackish golden sheen. Never the less, they are worth a good deal, as Panem currencies go. The few times Katiss had earned an entire Goldie from one of her dealings, she could make it last for days in her small family household. And now, somehow, by some miracle, they have _forty_ collected for Gale. It seems impossible.

"Has old age made you both blind and rambling already, Sae?" she mumbles, one eyebrow lifted up.

The older woman, whose age is indescribably hard to tell due to her leathery skin and sun-bleached hair, chuckles darkly, but wiggles a warning finger at the girl by her counter.

"Don't make yourself sound smarter than you are, girl," she scolds in her characteristic, creaky voice. "It makes you seem more like that wayward henchman of yours than what becomes you."

_Henchman. _Katniss has to stifle a laugh at the ridiculous description, imagining Gale's frowning face if he were here to hear it. He was always kind of touchy when it comes to things that other say about him. Or about her, for that matter.

"But seriously," she insists, scraping the very last trace of stock from the bottom of her empty soup cup. Squirrel and nettles today, among other unspecified specialties. "That can't have been right, I mean, who in the Seam has been able to put in more than a few coppers?"

"None of them, of course," says Greasy Sae, who is currently busying her hands cracking up a small pile of bones from the two squirrels Katniss sold her yesterday, to recook them for a second batch of stock.

Katniss frowns, finally letting her spoon clatter down in the cup. It's only because the soup kitchen owner has a good eye to her that she has been able to get a small meal for lunch. Otherwise, she'd be left with nothing but boiled tesserae grains, which offer very little by way of nutrition. She had been up at the crack of dawn again today, more energized than in a long time and looking forward to another whole day in the woods, just like the day before. That plan, however, had been crushed to mere dreams as she'd reached the district fence, and found the cursed thing alight with electricity. They must be sending her a warning, she thinks, because what else would explain why they have bothered to turn on the power now, when things is as calm as they ever get in the middle of the Games?

Therefore, here she is, hanging out at the Hob for her lunch break, since she felt she couldn't stand the risk of any more encounters with strangers at school, be they friendly or not. She has important things to check in on too, obviously: namely the collection for sponsoring Gale that has been going at the underworld market over the past weeks at partly her own initiative.

"We've had hoards of miners coming in, you know. They keep sending the foreman of each crew here with whatever each of the crewmembers can spare. Good lads, the lot of them."

There's a note of satisfaction in Sae's voice, and Katniss feels it too: the subtle, stubborn kind of Seam pride, that comes from generations of hard work and the headstrongness needed to conquer fear. The miners are their people's very own kind of everyday heroes, as each workday is almost a war down underground, without so much as a thank you from the Capitol. They know, better than most, the meaning of _hard work_, and in Twelve, labour is the key to respect.

"But still," she says one more time, "it doesn't add up. Even if half of the families here put in a little, and then the odd donation from townies-"

"Townies?" interrupts Darius the Peacekeeper, who has strutted over in the middle of things, and is now leaning on the counter beside Katniss.

She rolls her eyes meaningfully, mutters something about _merchant girls_ under her breath, but then barges on: " - that's still only twenty or at the most thirty. Where's the rest from?"

"Oh, merchant girls, huh? Am I detecting a note of jealo-"

Katniss shoves at the guy beside her, shutting him up but not wiping the exasperatingly smug grin of his face, at all. Luckily, she's too used to Darius being an ass to even bother caring about what he says.

The woman behind the counter wipes her none too clean hand on a rag hanging from her belt, and chooses to answer her question while serving up a bowl of soup. "Well, it's an anonymous donation, strictly speaking, but then again since you're you…" she leans forward, dull grey eyes shining with the light that gossip will always bring to curious people's faces. "The Mayor himself gave it to me," she whispers, adding a little nod at the end as if that confirms the truth of the statement. "Said he couldn't blame the kid for not trying, he said. Even if that daughter of his won't probably last another day. I don't think it's allowed really, but he gave me fifteen gold pieces all the same."

This information does not really surprise Katniss, the way it clearly excites Greasy Sae, since after all, she had given Madge's family a gift, precious by her standards. Why shouldn't they reciprocate by their own income? It is, however, an astonishing amount of money for a collection to be presented as from the District's poorest, and she's thankful for the extra boost, since gifts are precious this far into the Games.

"So you're taking it to the Justice Building this evening?" she asks, as she hops down from her stool to head back to school.

Just when the hardy cook is about to answer, there's shouting from closer to the entrance to the market, where a collection of shoddy men are gathered around a rather good-sized TV. Since Gale is rather well known in the Hob, someone had thought it suitable to put in a screen there, "for support", as they had put it when they'd dragged Katniss over to show it two weeks prior. This way, they had joked with Head Peacekeeper Cray when he came in to buy his weekly stash of liquor, no one could complain they weren't keeping up with mandatory viewings, at least. Never mind whatever other gambling, fraud and smuggling they were up to on a regular basis.

Katniss finds herself unwillingly drifting closer to the brightness of the flashing screen, as she hears Gale's name repeated, and sees fingers pointing to the screen. When she gets close enough, there he is: poised halfway up in a tree, right where the trunk splits up into a canopy of branches, where he has built himself a little shelter using the rain-proof canvas that he's found in Rue's backpack. By the looks of him, he's been sitting there for hours, whittling new wooden arrows from suitable sticks that he must have spent a lot of time collecting. He has shot another wild bird, which hangs plucked and cooked in a plastic bag on a branch, and is using the feathers from it to fasten on the end of each arrow for balance. It's meticulous work, but he's seemingly going through the motions mechanically, while the emptiness in in eyes tells her his mind is far, far away.

From what she's heard, he didn't do much at all the day before, simply found this spot in which he's in, climbed up to build this shelter, and then slept, hunted and got himself water. His face looks void of emotion, controlled, but she can tell, just by the small tension in his jaw, that such is not the case. Why would it be? He knows, just as well the as commentators are pointing it out, that now begins the truly hard part. The wait, the game of patience and pure strategy, where all tributes left are potential winners, and where the Gamemakers will soon step it up, keep them constantly on their toes. She hopes for the life of her that what he's doing in this idle state is formulate a new plan, but she can be none too sure, seeing as how he's clearly beginning to wane under the constant pressure in the arena, with the amount of bloodshed he's seen recently. _And caused, too_, she realises all of a sudden. She wonders if that is what goes through his mind now - the constant surging pain of guilt - or if he's strong enough to handle it. That forsaken knife which has killed both tributes from District 1 is still in his hand, and she wonders how he found the discipline to pull it out of the dead boy's throat, in the middle of everything.

"Geez, he looks like death," comes the snide remark from Darius, still dawdling along next to her by the TV.

Katniss snorts, catching the eye of one of the men in the gathering, and rolling her eyes. "If it were you in there, Darius, you wouldn't just look like it."

The retort draws out a round of sardonic chuckles from around them, but the man in question just grins, unconcerned by her taunting.

"Wouldn't you be heartbroken then, sweetie?" he croons in his exaggerated manner, and tugs once on the end of her long braid.

"Aw leave the poor girl alone," drawls old Grant, the local forger of knives and other small weapons that can be traded in the Hob, for those who have the means. "It's her boyfriend on screen now, she doesn't want your ugly face in the way."

Katniss just sighs aloud, knowing full well it's no use telling them Gale is not her boyfriend, since all the fun these men get to have in life is from teasing others. She's learned to live with it, especially since the fact that they mock her is a sign that she's accepted in here, that she's one of them.

The screen shows a similar shot of the two last standing Careers, where they are slumped down on rocks by the lakeside just off their camp, each holding a make-shift fishing rod that they've made from whatever scrap supplies they've been able to salvage after the pile had been blown up. They don't look nearly as relaxed and confident now, since it's evident that their basic survival skills are just that: basic.

Then, the picture is split into three sections, one showing Gale, on of the Careers, and the third taken up by a live picture of the Hunger Games official announcer, Claudius Templesmith. He's seated on a lavish couch in the Games studio, legs crossed and wearing a ridiculously large, plastered-on smile.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he begins, and in the two other sections they can see the tributes snapping their heads up, evidently hearing the same thing too. "The Capitol, our beloved Gamemakers and honoured President Snow himself, are pleased to announce, that there has been a change of rules."

What now? Katniss finds herself unconsciously chewing on a fingernail, anxious energy coursing through her body. Whatever devilish new plan the Gamemakers have come up with, it can't be anything good…

"The new rule is," continues Templesmith, "that from now on, if the two last standing tributes are both from the same district, _they will both be crowned Victors_. I repeat: there can now be two Victors, but only if they're the male and female tributes from _the same district_."

There's a long silence, during which Cato and Clove lower their eyes from the Capitol seal in the sky, to stare astonished at each other.

Then the announcer cuts short the proclamation by finishing with a cheery: "Happy continued Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favour."

The screen goes back to show only Gale up in his shelter, and the cameras close in to show his face in detail.

His eyes are slightly widened, alight with new purpose, but strangely, he does not look too surprised. A little smirk – that confident one that earned him much swooning in the run-up to the Games – grazes his lips, and his shoulders are squared, readied for action. One little words escapes his lips, almost like he isn't aware he's saying it:

"Madge."

And Katniss feels her stomach beginning to churn faster, in a chaotic mix of worry and confusion and something much darker, poisonous and angry. Of course she's worried, because this new rule is purposefully set up to make Gale take on the burden of her life as well as his own, while for the Careers it's only helpful. What could Madge possibly have to give Gale by way of protection, more than what she's already done? But then, perhaps he feels like he owes her now, like he has to do this since she's saved his life by risking her own. She does not like it one bit, even if she knows she should be happy that this is a chance for Madge to survive, too. The Mayor's daughter would still be counted as her friend, wouldn't she?

But where is she? In the last almost whole week, there hasn't been so much as a single picture showing the female tribute from Twelve, and Katniss thinks that it must mean that even the Gamemakers are uncertain of her whereabouts. But neither has her image flashed in the sky or her cannon gone off, so she's clearly out there somewhere.

She can see in his eyes the determination to find her, and knows that whatever scraps of plans he might have come up with so far are now erased, and replaced with that one sole goal: to get them both home in one piece.

"Well, what do you know," says Greasy Sae with mild surprise in her rasping voice, and receives agreeing hums from the crowd. Katniss can only concur in silence, and wait and see where this is going she guesses. In the meantime, there is school to attend, since spending the night in jail is not exactly a priority of hers, but that's the threat that still hangs over her head, should she skip classes anymore. She trudges out in the bright daylight, a stark contrast from the murkiness inside the Hob, wondering to herself how much there could possibly be to know about something so dull as coal.

* * *

That evening, as soon as Katniss and Prim gets home from school, the TV sparks to life with a loud crackling noise, followed by the Capitol anthem and a pleasant, but resigned voice that announces: "_Please take you seats in front of your closest screen. The Capitol of Panem is pleased to grant you a broadcast of the continued events in the 74__th__ Annual Hunger Games."_

Katniss groans aloud, gazing longingly out the window at the overcast sky, knowing that finally, the weather is perfect for hunting, and if she would just escape this stupid viewing, she could get them more food than she has been able to in weeks. If only…

"Katniss," Prim says quietly, looking at her with serious blue eyes. "You know you have to stay here, don't you? Otherwise…"

And Katniss doesn't even really need to see the frightened set of her little sister's face, to realise that it's futile to hope for any hunting to be done today. With a frustrated sigh, she plops herself down in the stiff couch in their living room.

"Do you need any help making dinner?" she hopefully asks her mother, who's over in the kitchen and puttering about.

"We're having what's left over from last night," she replies, not turning away from her work but waving a hand at the wooden stove where the pot of stew is still sitting.

"But what about Hazelle and the kids? Do they have anything left? And should they be watching this on their own…?"

Her mother turns around then, fixing her with her direct and yet so distant gaze. "There's nothing you can do abut that now. Hazelle is a resourceful woman, she can handle this on her own."

To be honest, Katniss knows that, too. But what she's really worried about is having to sit through this whole viewing, without any distractions whatsoever, because she's got a very, very bad feeling about what's going to happen next.

At first, there's a half-hour of following the events of all tributes still left alive, a number which suddenly is down to only six: both from District 2, a girl from Five, the boy from Eleven, and Gale and Madge.

Katniss swears under her breath as it dawns on her what that entails. She's surprised that no one has been here yet, but supposes that the quick deaths of Rue, Marvel and the boy from Three threw the Gamemakers a little off guard.

"Interviews, right?" mutters Prim, apparently having just thought of the same thing.

Usually, as soon as the only tributes left are the final eight, they send reporters out to the districts to film their families, as they answer questions about their loved ones in the Games. She can think of nothing that she'd be less inclined to participate in.

When the turn comes to show Gale on screen, it soon becomes obvious that his doings are by far the most interesting, whereby the cameras are bound to linger on him for the remainder of the broadcast. He has left his shelter, packed it all up in the small backpack that he has inherited from Rue, and set out in a straight line for the Cornucopia once again - quite a brave move of him, considering all the bad things that have happened to him in that spot. To begin with, they're shown a short summary of what he's been up to during the afternoon, and so they see him skirt around the edge of the clearing, cautiously watching out for any sign that Cato or Clove are about to leave their campfire. When he gets to the other side, he begins scouting around, looking closely along the forest floor for any sign of disruption. That way, he eventually finds the spot where Madge had hidden from her persecutors after her escape, marked with flattened bushes, and an abundance of dried, browning blood. From there, it's a breeze for a hunter as competent as Gale to track her movements through the underbrush.

Then they snap back to real time, and suddenly, the landscape is different from any Katniss has seen so far in the Games this year. No one has bothered to go very far this way, but avoided the rocky, sterile scenery where it's obvious food will be scarce and shelter even scarcer. Gale is wading through the shallows along the riverbank, following it steadily upstream. By now, it's early evening in the arena as well as in Twelve, and the sun is still shining at an angle that makes the water beneath his feet sparkle and glow, manipulates his eyes to be the exact same shade of golden grey. Every now and then, he bends down, fidgets with something along the ground, and then continues with more determination in his steps. He's following a trail, clearly, and by the way his steps slow down, he's getting closer. Finally, he stops and scans his eyes over every inch of the shallow rocky pool he's stepped out into. The long, subtle ascent has left him quite far up a hillside, where the river has thinned into a stream, murmuring pleasantly as it flows from a water source not far off. Right in the spot where he has stopped, the water is pooling up to form a round little clearing, edged with rocks and stones of various sizes. On the far side, a sort of small waterfall fills of the pond, and the outlet which he just stepped in over is narrow, with a dense sprinkling of reed and moss covering it. Thus, the place is somewhat sheltered, but also, more importantly, there's nowhere further to go from there.

Like a hunter close on the trail of his prey, Gale freezes in place as soon as he enters the clearing, taking tabs of the situation before barging in on the unknown. When he's sure nothing unexpected is going to jump out on him, he steps fully into the pool, its water only high enough to reach the ankles of his impermeable boots.

"Madge?" he calls out softly, looking right and left in search.

First, there's only stillness, but then, from the middle of absolute nowhere, as if detached suddenly from the surface of the rocks, a slim, pale hand reaches out. Gale snaps his eyes immediately to the movement, and flinches in surprise when he sees it.

A strained cough resounds across the pond from where the hand is hovering is seemingly thin air, and in the still bright sunrays, it looks as if the rocks there turn three-dimensional, unfold from the ground and tremble. The hand grows out to become an entire arm, and behind it, there's a shadow of something more hiding.

Gale reaches the riverbank, hunches down beside the strange sight, and tentatively reaches out his own hand toward it. In one pull, the camouflage cover comes off, to reveal the blond, deathly pale girl underneath.

Madge blinks, narrowing her eyes to shelter them from the sudden brightness, and coughs again, trying to get her voice working. "Gale," is all that comes out in recognisable speech, but it's enough to make him respond with a small smile.

"Hey there," he says, deposing of the sheet that used to cover her to the side. "In case we were playing hide and seek, I won."

Madge smiles, closing her eyes, but his own smile quickly wanes, as he takes a good look at her current condition. It's not a pretty sight: cuts still criss-cross her cheek and down the skin to her arms, dirt is smeared in her hair and on her clothes and deep in her injuries, making them slightly swollen - and most worrying, is the giant gash in her upper right leg.

"That's _really_ infected," mutters Prim, who is curled up against the opposite armrest from Katniss, their leg tangled together in the middle.

"Will she live?" asks Katniss in a low voice, finding herself worried despite her better judgement.

"Not without medicine, she won't," says their mother in a sharp, matter-of-fact tone, coming over to the couch and sinking down in the middle seat, forcing her daughters to move their legs away. On a tray in her lap are three bowls of steaming hot stew, along with three slices of bread left over from the day before.

Katniss takes her bowl and spoon and balances them against the armrest, deep in thoughts. If it were her mother or Prim out there, they'd know what to do. They'd know what medicinal plants to find to ease the infection, and they'd know how to stop a fever from escalating. For her own part, she knows very little of the sort, only the most basic of remedies and the most acute of field care, and she knows Gale is even worse off than that.

Not even Madge's father is so rich he can afford the precious medicine she needs, and who else is going to sponsor her in this weak, useless state? The prospect of having double Victors from Twelve this years seems impossibly remote.

* * *

Gale is not a squeamish kind of guy – far from it, he has no trouble gutting the carcass of a deer or butchering the rabbits that get trapped in his hunting contraptions – but the thing is, he has absolutely no real knowledge about healing. The particularly ugly wound in front of him seems to stare him down tauntingly, and he can't take his eyes off it, no matter how gruesome the sight, with its oozing of yellow fluid, infected, swollen skin and large amount of dried blood. No matter how much the sight makes his belly churn with unease.

Pulling himself together, and tearing his eyes away to look instead at the pale face of the girl in front of him, whom he's now sworn by simple _ability_ to take care of, he mutters to himself, "Alright, what's the first step?"

"'s no use," slurs Madge, still curled up in the same position on the riverbank where he found her.

"Don't be stupid," he retorts, standing up again to dispose of his backpack. "You'll be fine." Maybe, if he says it with enough conviction, it'll be true.

She smiles, almost like she would have laughed if she had the chance, and answers reasonably, "I'm pretty sure it's infected."

_No shit_, thinks Gale, but aloud, he only sighs. "Well, let's try and clean it out, then, shall we?"

It's a slow, agonizing process, but eventually, he manages to get her to sit upright, remove her clothing, and submerge her body in the clear water of the pond. The gentle drift washes over her skin, and the whole thing looks oddly peaceful - until he fetches some strips of cloth to wash her injured leg, that is. She grimaces, and she bites down hard on her lip until it's almost bleeding, but all in all, she takes it surprisingly well. He worries that might be because she has had next to nothing to eat in six days, and that she's already started to lose connection to her body, so he tries to get her to talk instead of drifting off, like she seems to be doing every other minute.

They end up talking - a word here and there mainly - about home, about happier times when they were younger and less weighted down by responsibilities. Gale talks of his little sister some more, and Madge mentions her collection of coloured papers that she'd find in the market on Sunday afternoons after the weekly commerce. Strange interest for a girl with a large collection of dolls, she comments.

Then, finally, it's over, and Gale is just about to move on to other chores at hand, but she catches his arm with a weak hand, and holds him in place by her side. Her eyes glitter with slanted sunlight, and with something else too - like the inner brightness of memories past.

"Do you remember," she says, her voice no longer raspy, but very soft, "when we were little kids, you kissed me once? Dab smack on the lips and all, behind a stall in the market."

Gale actually blushes, the slightest colouring spreading across his cheekbones and a foolish little smile twitching on his lips for a short moment in confirmation that he remembers, too.

"Why did you do that?"

Her question is not unanticipated, but despite the fact that he is well aware this conversation has to happen, he can feel his throat closing up. His answer comes out a little hoarse, but he hopes that it can pass for overwhelming emotion.

"I told you," he says, forcing his suddenly nervous gaze to stay focused on hers, "there's only ever been one girl for me."

"Really?" She frowns slightly, not angered, but more like confused, and her eyes have widened into large, green pools of wonder. "I thought you were just making it up," she says quietly, her voice coarse but vulnerable. "You know, because of – well…"

Gale cringes inwardly, but tries not to let it show on his face, carefully keeping an open expression in place. _Because of her, yes; She-whom-he-must-not- think-about._

He swallows the thick lump forming in his throat. This is it - no bad feelings allowed. "Do you really think I'm such a bad person?" he presses out, making it seem as effortless as he possibly can, firing off his best easy smile for good measure.

In her usual, disarming way, Madge regards him for a long moment before answering. When she does, however, her smile is lit up from within.

"No, Gale," she mumbles, reaching out a frail hand to run her fingers down his cheek. "I really don't."

* * *

A little while later, Gale gazes down on the scarred, weak-looking figure beneath him, where she lays with her lower half submerged in water. He sits hunched by her side, close enough to see her every injury in excruciating detail, since all she's wearing is her underwear. Through the luminescent surface of the clear stream, her fair skin seems to shimmer unearthly, like she could just dissolve with a strong current and drift away in the water.

"Madge, come on, we need to get you out of here," he says, reaching out to touch her shoulder, check so that she's still awake. She can't afford to drift away in the clutches of sleep now, when she's so close to the oblivion of death that she may just never come back.

The girl turns her face an inch in his direction, tries to open her eyes without much success. "Hmm?" she mumbles, her face relaxed and serene in the warm glow of the sun.

He sighs, runs a hand through his tousled hair in exasperation. "Let's put your clothes back on. They're still wet, but you're kind of burning up, so…"

In response, she only grunts, as if to say _whatever you think is best_ and closes her eyes again. With another sigh, he tries to talk himself into _doing this_, since after all, he's already been the one to undress her, wash her wound free of dirt, and clean her clothes. How much personal space could really be left between them? He straightens up, goes over to retrieve her now sun-warm pants, shirt and jacket, along with some extra clean socks that were left in Rue's backpack – all that's available for bandaging her wound. While he draws her up out of the water and tries to ease the articles of clothing on without disrupting any of the gashes; angry red marks on her skin, she is limp and unresponsive like a rag doll. From time to time, she tries to listen to his pleas for her help, tries to lift an arm or hold back with her leg as he threads on her trousers. They've got a large hole in top of the right leg, where the knife broke through, and her foot keeps getting stuck there for several tries. It's not until he swears aloud in frustration that she opens her eyes again, as if drawn back to awareness by his voice.

She stays at least half-awake as he laces his boots back on, throws on his small pack and lifts her up in his arms, like we would a small child. She doesn't fit all that well, really, with her long limbs, but her head comes to rest on his left shoulder, and the pleased sigh she utters then makes him thinks she is rather enjoying the situation. Of course, she is too out of it to actually appreciate what the situation is.

"Stay with me now, all right Madge?" he begs her, because by now the fear is beginning to catch up with him. There's not much left that he can do, besides get her somewhere sheltered and relatively safe, give her time to… Heal? Any other outcome is unthinkable, now that even the rules of the Games have been bent in their favour.

Gale starts back down the current of the stream, walking with careful steps along the bankside, but still in the water, which reaches almost up to the top of his sturdy boots. If anyone comes looking for them, he wants to have covered his tracks as much as possible. Along the way, his eyes keep flickering with worry to her face, to check if she's awake or not, since her pulse is too weak to feel through their layers of clothing, and he doesn't trust the heat of her feverish skin to tell him. He whispers in her ear: "Stay awake. Stay strong," time and again, hoping she'll hear him and understand.

Gradually, the evening turns into night as he walks. He watches her tousled golden curls bounce with his every step, fly away with the wind, and tries to think of something. He sincerely doubts he'd recognize the wondrous plants that Rue had used to draw out the infection in his Tracker-Jacker stings, even if he would be so lucky as to find them. Any other healing plants that he may have ever known about grows in the deepest, darkest forest, and certainly not in this sparsely vegetated rocky landscape. In the end, all he can think about is to clean out the wound once more, put a fresh bandage on it, get some simple nourishment in her stomach and hope for the fever to cease. Or for sponsors, of course – now _there's_ a route he hadn't even considered, in all his frenzied practicality. It's far into the Games, and gifts are bound to be as good as priceless at this stage, but at least, he has a good idea of how to pull it off.

He wonders if all the human species of womankind would despise him, if they knew what he is plotting right now - has been plotting all along. At the very least, he knows _one_ exemption to that theory, but then again, maybe in this case her opinion is less than objective. He feels a deep twinge of guilt when he thinks about that particular girl, knowing that what he has in mind is deceit in two very real ways. But if it's also the key to survival, then how can it be the wrong thing?

Once, he heard someone state an old proverb, from the times before even Panem, saying that _all is fair in love and war_, and it sticks to his mind now, since this is both. He wields those words as a weapon against his own guilt-ridden thoughts every time they pop up during the remainder of the evening and night, as he walks down the stream until darkness has begun to fall in earnest, and Madge has begun to utter small noises of discontentment every time his steps are the least bumpy. He finds them a good enough hideout in between some rocks, where they'll be as hidden from sight as is possible in this unforgiving landscape. It's not ideal, but with her camouflage canvas as a curtain across the opening, it's as good as it's going to get. He can't get them any further today. He finds a stray few twigs to build a fire with, which he will risk doing only because he deems it highly unlikely there will by any tributes close by to see the smoke, and in the end, the small cave is reasonably warm and feels surprisingly homey. He thinks it's just his mind playing tricks on him since he's sick of being cold and alone, but it's nice nevertheless, to have someone there with him, and someone from home at that.

He sits by the frail fire, chews on the last leg of wild bird and heats up a cup of warm water with a choice few herbs and scraps of meat in it for Madge to drink, every now and then casting worried glances toward her where she's lying swept up tightly in the sleeping bag beside him on the ground. When it's done, he makes her sit halfway up, noticing how her cheeks are now flaming hot and feverishly red, compared to their spooky whiteness from before. He doesn't know if it's a good or a bag sign, but in all honesty, there's nothing he can do, but hope. And one more thing…

So after he has made her drink a few chugs of the broth, and she looks up at him with her green eyes simmering dizzily, he looks right back, and strokes away her matted hair from her forehead with a gentle hand. And he knows there's only one answer to her question, when she asks him with words slightly slurred:

"Would you kiss me again, if I asked you?"

So he continues to gaze into her eyes, reassuringly, while letting a soft smile spread across his lips and everything else in the world fall away from his mind. Then he lowers his face halfway down to hers, and answers, close enough for his quiet words to reach her: "No need to ask."

Keeping her eyes locked on his the rest of the way, until the last fraction of a distance, when they fall close of their own accord; he puts his lips softly on hers. They're too warm, and chapped, but surprisingly soft, and her hair and skin somehow still smells like soap and pleasant girly things. Despite her height, and her self-assured attitude, she feels small and fragile in his hold, like something delicate that he must care for, should put all his effort into protecting. And because of that, it doesn't really matter that in the back of his mind, something is screaming for him to stop, that this is not right, or that his heart is only half fluttering, and half clenching in agony.

After a short moment, he pulls back, but knows all too well that if he opens his eyes, she will see that consuming doubt in them, which means _they _will see it too, so instead, he leans their bodies closer together, and gently folds her head down onto his shoulder, leaning his own on top. He can still feel the contented sigh that escapes her, and sort of feel her smile in the air around her, like radiation.

She nuzzles into his hold, but after that, the strain of staying awake becomes too much, and she goes limp and heavy against him in sleep. Thankfully, thus she is none the wiser when from outside the makeshift home, comes the light ringing of silver bells that signifies a gift has been grated them from a sponsor. It's no surprise to Gale, but how could he have ever foreseen that the gift he'd be given at this precise moment, would be something to make him feels so infinitely much worse than he already does? In the parcel that comes with the parachute are two things:

First, and on the expected side, is a roll of proper bandages and a note from Haymitch, sneering at him: "Nice start, but not nearly enough."

And then there's another package; a whole loaf of soft wheat bread, still steaming slightly from the oven and crusted with a sprinkling of whole seeds, and two perfect, steel-tipped arrows. He recognises the first as the stuff that the baker in Twelve makes, and the second as the handicraft of none other than the old black-market armorer in the Hob, the kind that Katniss trades for hard-earned money when she absolutely needs them to take down bigger prey.

Gale stares at them for a good, long while, dumbfounded, before picking the precious gifts up, inspecting them closely for any sign of falsification. But he finds none, and thus the only explanation is the obvious one: that this is a gift scraped together by the people back home; by his friends and family and trading acquaintances, who all barely have enough to get by for themselves. His hands trails along the metal hilt of the arrows, and he thinks that he has a strong inclination of whose idea this must have been from the beginning, a thought that is nagging, grating at his determination and pulling at his insides like a storm struggling to break free.

It's with heavy feet that the drags himself back into the cave, stowing away his new gifts for the morning and collapsing down onto the ground beside the dying embers of the fire in exhaustion; and it's with even heavier conscience that he realises it will eventually be too cold to sleep there, and moves over to lie side by side with the sleeping girl whose body is radiating heat. For sure, he thinks, right before dreamless sleep draws him under, the Games are far from over.


	12. Terribly dark

**A/N: **Longest update delay ever, as this story goes! My sincerest apologies, I hope you haven't been too frustrated with me...? So, I was going to make this chapter an extra-super long conclusion of the Games, but instead, true to form, I got carried away with character rambling for Katniss, and so here we are with another full one and no end of Games in sight. Next one though - I mean, enough moping around already. A little more patience, is all I'm asking for...

Thank you, again and again, to all reviewers and new readers, I can't actually believe how many people are following this now! Be careful or I might get writer's block... Not! Extra thanks to anonymous reviews, of course, since I can't say it in person :)

* * *

It's funny, how the human race seems to be programmed to always want what they can not get. You wish for heat when the frost is at its most intense, and you wish for shelter from the intensity of heat, once you have it. Thinking that the grass would actually be greener on the other side, Katniss had been wishing for a respite from the unrelenting scorching sun, and she had not particularly been yearning for a certain somebody's heart, while it seemed to belong to nobody.

Now it's raining buckets, and she wants badly the affection that is suddenly hopelessly out of her reach; further away than even the slightest hint of blue skies overhead. There's not even any sense in trying to deny it, because over the past week, when a small, forbidden part of her brain had been starting to hope he would actually make it home on his own and they would get through this, she has started to think about him as hers - no matter how much she knows it's not a fact. She had started envisioning him winning, being crowned Victor without too much fuss, and then coming back to Twelve, whole and undamaged and happy. The last part in itself shows how much of a wishful imagination the whole thing had been, but nevertheless, that particular daydream got her through the day. At the very bottom of it, she wants with all her heart to see him smile, to look into his eyes and be able to tell his deepest secrets, to draw in his scent in a deep breath, and a lot of other things that are new and strange to her.

Now, however, all that's left of those dreams is a crushing heaviness in her limbs, and the overwhelming smell of wet leather and damp hair.

* * *

The interviewing people come to Twelve early the next day. When Katniss sits down in the school bench for her first morning class – the chemistry of coal – the room is buzzing with interest over the arrival of the Capitolites here, in their far-off district. To her classmates, it's exciting, a source for new gossip and something to break off their dull everyday lives.

To Katniss, it's a cause for alarm and a sign that it is high time to escape. She sticks out the two classes before lunch, confident that the reporters won't try to drag her out of class, that they are busy with Madge's family to begin with, and that then, in all probability, they'll move on to the Hawthornes, since they're his actual family. Only after that is there a certain risk that they'll want to put Katniss and her family in focus too, since a lot of people will probably let on their close relation. But she's hoping that perhaps if she stays behind in the shadows for long enough, they'll somehow forget about her.

No such luck.

She stays out late in the woods, setting and resetting snares, collecting herbs and spices that she hasn't had time to bother with for several weeks, and then sits in Gale's and her meeting place for a long while, just staring off in the distance over the green rolling landscapes while the sun sets. The entire process would be restful, kind of pleasant even, if it weren't for the fact that she has barely slept a full hour at a time during the previous night - that, and the fact that the overall dampness permeates even the toughest of hunting gear.

A gathering of heavy clouds has begun to form overhead, and she stares at them - rolling and building up height by some mysterious force that she knows nothing of – and wishes desperately that she could just shut off her mind completely. There's rope in her hands that need twining, a task which Gale usually would be taking care of, but in the last hours or so she's only managed to mend a mere inch of the coarse material. The last few days of proper nutrition has strengthened her body some, and that's probably the only reason she's able to get things done at all today, seeing as how the dreaded, incapacitating feeling of dejection is back in full force. As if unable to tear her eyes away, no matter how much she hates watching, she had sat the whole evening in front of the television, seen every second of the interaction that was the end of her brittle expectations. A part of her knows that it's the only way, that of course Gale would have to save Madge, and care for her with all that's in his power, because otherwise he wouldn't really be himself. But mainly, she can't stop herself from wanting to scream out in frustration, and then just curl up into a ball and hide from the world for a good long while.

The whole thing is just so convincing, that there can be no lingering doubt in her mind about the truth of their relation to each other. Madge is obviously caught with soul and body under his spell, and as for Gale, he has never seemed so soft, so gentle ever before, to the point where she doesn't quite recognise him anymore. On that screen, in that barren little cave, he is not her best friend, but a new form of himself, who she is sure makes all the girls swoon in their TV-couches. It makes her miss him with a force greater than ever before.

Finally, as the last shards of daylight are soaked up by the heavy clouds and a distant clap of thunder alerts her to the fact that is will start raining again any moment, she makes her way back to the fence, at a reluctant pace. Somewhere deep in her practical mind, she knows better, but she can't stop herself from almost sleepwalking down the familiar forest trail – stumbling more than once as her feet and her brain are far too disconnected for her own good. Above her head, the skies open up and water starts to pour down, soaking her hair and face and in no time – her clothes. All she wants is to lay down and sleep to forget, but she trudges on – until the woods thin out and the fence rises up in front of her; across the dingy dirt roads of the Seam and finally up the front porch of her home.

"Katniss! Where on earth have you been?" Her mother and sister flutter over to haul her inside, relieve her of her bag and her boots and walk her over to a chair.

She has no energy to resist their worried care, like she normally would. Since it's quite obvious where she's been, she forgoes answering their question, too. Slumping down in the chair and letting her sister run a towel down her dripping braid, she closes her eyes, exhausted.

"The camera team were here today," continues her mother, while forcing a hot mug of tea into her yielding hand.

_That_ makes her eyes snap open. In all her moping, she had almost forgotten about them.

"They asked us a few questions, but mostly, they wanted to talk to you. You know, I think people had told them you two know each other really well."

"I wish people would just keep their mouths shut," she mumbles, and sighs all the way from her aching, cold toes.

"Well, you know they never do, honey," her mother points out in matter-of-fact voice, while sorting out the now-soaked findings from the woods. "That woman – I can't remember her name, something Capitol… She said they'd be back tomorrow morning and were _hoping _to meet you then." Her blue eyes were grave as they met the grey of her older daughter's. "As in, you have to be here, otherwise I don't know what they will do. It's bad enough that they saw you weren't here for the recap today, and that I couldn't even give them a plausible excuse of where you were."

Katniss watches her mother turn around and sees the desperate plea in her eyes, the one that says _I don't have the nerves for this, please_ and it makes her chew her lip and shrink down in her seat. She may consider herself the actual head of the family, but as she's still very much aware, it's her mother who has to take on all the worrying about her. In times like this, it makes her feel kind of bad, but not enough to actually change anything.

"Do you think they'll report me?" she asks, her voice quiet and as resigned as it ever gets.

In return, she gets a deep sigh, and feels her little sister still her hands that are still in her hair, combing it through with light fingers. Thin arms wrap around her shoulders from behind the back of the chair, and Prim's chin comes to rest just beside her neck, in a gesture that is probably made more out of fear than consolation. Prim knows just as well as Katniss that the one who would suffer more if Katniss were punished would be her. The older of the two sisters puts her hands on the younger one's arms, and squeezes them once, thinking that it's more and more rare for them to share this kind of physical affection anymore. They're growing up, for better and for worse.

"Yes," it slips out of their mother, as quiet as it is final. "Yes, I'm sure they will."

If she were any less hardy, any more emotional, Katniss would give up her tough exterior right there and then and let tears flow freely down her cheeks, like they have been wanting to do for weeks. As it is, she has hormone levels high enough to feel a deep, aching sense of injustice threatening to detonate from inside. She doesn't need this, won't stand upright for any more pressure at this stage, she's sure - but either way, the choice is not hers to make.

Staring up at the low, slightly bend ceiling, she feels with absolute certainty that she is so close; too close, to giving up. What's the point in fighting, if there's not the slightest glint of brightness at the end of it all?

"You'll feel better tomorrow, I promise." Prim's pleading voice brings her back to the now, startling her from the dark depths of her mind. "Let's go to bed, alright?" From the odd angle she sees her face in, Prim looks older, made wiser by the long shadows of the single oil lamp in the room. Katniss blinks at her, but then nods, and forces her stiff body to rise out of the chair in a stilted, harsh motion.

"Okay," she mumbles, strangely acceptant tonight of the care that her small family normally are not allowed to extend to her. "Yeah, better tomorrow..."

It's a lie, but at least it's a white lie, meant only to get her through the next couple of hours. There must have been something in the tea she had been given, something her mother put there to ease her anxious mind, because as soon as her head touches the pillow – cool and unbelievingly soft to her in this moment – she's out cold.

* * *

"Miss Everdeen, I am not here to force you, I can assure you of that. But if you don't want to participate in an interview considering the current information that you have access to, will you at least receive this phone call?"

The reporter – a woman with unnaturally pale silver hair, irises that sparkle with cold, bluish icy flames and frost-like crystals tattooed on her hands and arms – holds out a small, electronic device towards Katniss with a smile as cool as her appearance plastered on her pale blue lips. The District 12 girl, in turn, only stares at it, as if the little thing is going to sprout fangs and chop her hand off in one go if she were to touch it.

True to their word, the interviewing team had showed up bright and early on the Everdeen's doorstep, bustled inside in the middle of their morning meal without seemingly a second thought that they might be interrupting.

"Now, I wouldn't _dream_ of interrupting," had the Capitolite, who had introduced herself as Halley (_short for Haleandria!_), said the minute she came through the door, two camera men in tow. "… but put that – bowl of grain is it? I swear, you district people eat the most tedious of meals – away for now, we have more important things to be doing!"

It probably wasn't the woman's fault that she knew nothing of the ways of life outside of the Capitol, but still. Katniss had instantly felt that they were off to an exceptionally bad start. After that, things didn't exactly improve, either, as Halley had thrown her a pack of clothes – a bright red dress and matching shoes – telling her to wear them instead of her _threadbare rags_, as she had called the sweater and pants that she had currently had on. Katniss' face had gone as red as the soft fabric of the dress, and she probably would have exploded in rage right there and then, never mind the consequences, if her mother hadn't chosen that moment to step in.

"I'm sure it doesn't matter all that much what my daughter wears," she had tried to placate the team, putting on her most wiseacre, sensible air.

"Especially since I don't plan on being on any kind of recording," Katniss had grumbled, quite fed up with the whole thing before it had even begun.

Halley had looked shocked then, but unfortunately, she seemed to have dealt with reluctant families of tributes before.

"Of course you will," she had brushed off the refusal, as if it were nothing but a petulant child's complaints. "All family members and friends of the final six will be appearing on camera, it's required of you, and a great-" Seeing Katniss' darkening facial expression at the words that were about to come out of her mouth, the Capitolite quickly backtracked. " – a great _help _to your friend, if you would participate.

When Katniss had still scowled with apparent stubbornness at the cameras attached to the two other present strangers, Halley had sighed theatrically, and that's what had lead them to their current argument.

"Who would want to talk to me?" asks Katniss, her eyes shifting focus between the small device – a mobile telephone, apparently – and the frosty woman in front of her.

"Your District mentor, actually," informs the interviewer, looking kind of surprised herself, as if the mere idea of anyone currently in the Capitol wanting to talk to a plain girl in the most faraway of districts is new to her, too.

Haymitch Abernathy. What on earth does he want with her? The curiosity alone is almost enough for her to forget her qualms about partaking in this insane merry-go-round of performing that is the Hunger Games. At the same time, she's well convinced nothing he could have to tell her would be a good thing - and besides, she's never even _seen_ a telephone before.

Halley smiles at her in what is probably supposed to be an encouraging kind of way, even though in all her cold haughtiness, it is mostly condescending. "Go on, take it and flip it open. The mobile will connect itself to the right line."

Frowning suspiciously, Katniss grabs the little telephone in one hand, carefully as to not drop it, or break it if she holds it too forcefully – what does she know about modern technology, after all? With one last look at its owner, to make sure it's quite alright, she finds a small indent in the side of the rectangle, and flips the screen open. Instantly, the thing gives off a sharp, multi-toned beep, and a number flashes up on the screen in bold black letters. Hesitantly, she moves to put the thing against her ear just like Holley is impatiently gesturing for her to do, holding it still with both hands and craning her head awkwardly from inexperience.

She almost jumps out of her skin when the electrical noises of the ringing tones are replaced by a gruff, but incredibly close-seeming voice from the other end of the line.

"Katniss Everdeen, is it?" Haymitch Abernathy, the only surviving tribute ever to be selected from Twelve, has a deep, grumbling voice, one you could never mistake once you've heard it for the first time. It's the voice of a lifetime of drinking to forget.

"Yes," responds Katniss, her voice still laced with suspicion, but at the same time a lot more formal then she would be under normal circumstances to this man.

"About time you showed up for this goddamn circus," starts Haymitch without any further preamble. "We don't have forever for you to pretty up for your interview you know."

"By all means, leave me out of it," seethes Katniss back at him through the telephone connection, forgetting all about her insecurities when it comes to electronics, or about manners for that matter.

"See now sweetheart, that's just what we can't do."

"_What_ did you just call me?" Katniss only barely restrains from throwing the mobile phone against the opposite wall, but stalks outside, out of earshot from the others in the room.

"Oh, get over yourself, will you? We don't have time for more of your temper tantrums. Or have you forgotten, there a life at stake here?"

She shuts her lips firmly around all of the less-than-pleasant things she would like to shout on top of her lungs into the tiny microphone, as she realises that of course he's right. No matter how unjust it may seem, or how much she hates to admit it, this man she's talking to is actually Gale's best – possibly only – shot at surviving the Games, and therefore, she has no choice but to listen.

"I take that as a no, then. Good." The brusque voice in the speaker goes from dry and just plain rude, to focused in a mere second. "Now listen up, because we have some strategy to go through here, you and I. You will be doing the interview this morning, right?"

"I guess so," says Katniss reluctantly, leaning against the rickety wall of the tool shed out back. She has not really yet come to terms with the fact that this interview is actually happening. "If you tell that terrible woman not to dress me up like some doll."

"Correction: the interview _will_ be happening this morning, whether you like it or not." Hearing her angry huff in the microphone, he relents: "But no, there will be no dolling up on your part, that's guaranteed. Tell her I said to stick that up her-" He breaks off the sentence with a loud cough, sounding for all the world like he's trying to empty his toes of bacteria.

"Fair enough," she relents, once she's sure it's safe to hold the speaker up against her ear again, decibel-wise.

"Now," grunts Haymitch, "as for the strategy, we need a plausible excuse for your existence."

Starting upright, she almost drops the phone. "What?" she demands, outraged.

"Well, sweetheart, the thing is, we need to explain to the audience that you're not a threat to their new favourite love story. Because unfortunately, you've already made your presence known on a number of occasions, and we need to fix that somehow."

Her mind spins, trying to catch up on his meaning, what he wants from her. What has the audience of the Games seen of her? Only a short glimpse from the reaping, and then a small number of references from either Gale or Madge, most of which could be about anyone, really, unless the viewer knows her. But connected together… If the observer would be clever enough to connect each of those small pieces, she supposes they'd understand her as someone important in Gale's life, but what would be the problem with that? Unless…

"But we're just friends," she states clearly, refusing to let even the slightest note of emotion creep into her voice. Especially not the bitter, dark feeling that makes her want to add something like _if even friends._

"Be that as it may, it still doesn't explain why you seem to be joined by the hips anywhere you go in Twelve. It's suspicious – and don't _huff _at me again, I'm only trying to help you out here."

Katniss huffs again anyway, louder this time.

"So," continues Haymitch, taking to notice of her displeasure, "could you secretly have the same father, for example?

"_What?"_

" - they're both dead, so no one will remember too clearly that's not the case."

"_No_!"

"Oh, no I suppose you would have the same surname then, yeah… Too conspicuous."

Katniss can feel hot rage boiling under her skin, like an electric current of power buzzing to be released, to blow up like a storm and simultaneously empty and fill her tense body.

"What about cousins, then? Your fathers could have been brothers: as far as anyone is concerned, everyone in the Seam are somehow related anyway."

Seething, she spits out "We are not related!" Who does he think he is, this pathetic drunkard who believes himself mandated to just barge in and dictate her life all of a sudden. If it were someone else, someone from home who hadn't already lost her respect ages ago by his disgraceful lifestyle, she might be able to listen, but for this man, she has absolutely no patience.

With surprising calm, only interrupted by a slight note on impatience, he spells it out to her from his perspective: "Well, as far as the Capitol knows from now on, girlie, you _are_. Do you want your dear bestie back or not, huh?"

Her stubborn silence somehow says it all, because of course she does, but she still doesn't quite see what that has to do with this.

"So you see, we have a common interest here, you and I. My job is to make sure the tributes make it back home, and your _duty_ is to facilitate that for me in this case, alright?"

She grunts something semi-positive in response, scraping with her bare foot against the wet grass in the yard. A sluggish sheen of rain is falling steadily from the sky, wetting her still-damp hair all over again. Overhead, the clouds are as grey as steel, as thick as a sturdy woollen blanket.

"Fan-tas-tic," comes the dry response over the phone. "Because you see, you may as well hear and remember this already: that _the Games are never over. _You may think in all your godforsaken virtue that once this is over - if your little friend survives - then it's finished and things will go back to their happy ever after or whatever. But that's not the case, I tell you."

Frowning deeply, she tries her best to follow his meaning, despite the many distractingly irritating words.

"What I'm saying is," continues Haymitch, in the same drawling, bored voice, "that even if Hawthorne survives the Games, they are never over. They will always be a part of his life, and therefore, also a part of your life. So consider this our first draw in the grand scheme of things, Everdeen, because you're going to have to learn how to play anyway, really soon."

After a short moment of silence, during which she grounds her teeth tightly together, and mulls over his words as best she can get her head around them right now, she still has one question: "And how does this help Gale, exactly?"

She hears an exasperated sigh from across the electronic waves, and gets the overly obvious explanation of: "What the fuck do you think? Sponsors, of course. You convince the entire realm of Panem that you're no more threatening than a mere unfortunate cousin, and they'll all queue up like good little moneybags."

One of her eyebrows quirk up at the colourful description of Capitol people, almost taking with it the one side of her lips in dry amusement, but then again, her District's sole Victor has never struck her as someone who would come to admire the lavish lifestyle of the Capitol people.

"_So,_" says the man in question at last, obviously trying to finish up their lengthy conversation. "Do we understand each other?"

Katniss huffs one last time in irritation, and has to grit her teeth while saying it, but forces out: "Cousins, is it?"

"Good girl. Now go make your interview, but remember what I said: stick to neutral ground, alright?"

"Yeah, yeah," she mutters dismissively, refraining with little ease from calling him all sorts of names over the phone. That probably wouldn't help her at all, come to think of it. The line goes dead in her ear without another word, and she lowers the phone in her hold slowly, as if that would hold off the moment when she has to go back inside and actually deal with this information. Even though she just woke up, the realisation that comes with her first ever phone call settles into her mind like a big, heavy block of concrete, burdens her shoulders with the weight of the world even more than ever before, as she sees now that she had been right before, thinking that nothing is actually going to get easier just because Gale comes home, or because the task of feeding their families will ease up. However, she had never foreseen in her wildest dream that things could get as complicated as they were looking out to become now.

Dragging her feet behind, she walks back around to the front door where the camera team is wating impatiently, hands over the mobile telephone to Halley, who smiles a knowing, victorious smile as she sees her defeated demeanour and claps her white-tinted hands together.

"Right! Let's do this," chirps the Capitol woman, and proceeds to usher Katniss and the two cameramen down the stairs and off into the nearby meadow, which she has deemed a more suitable background for the recorded interview than the dusty, grey exterior of the Seam.

It's all downhill from there. After spending the entire morning in the meadow, trying her best not to scowl at the camera while answering stupid questions of how she knows Gale, what they usually do together and how she sees him as a person, she is sick to her stomach of Capitol people. It's lies anyway, most of it, as she has to bend the truth beyond recognition for the sake of abiding by law and her directions from Haymitch.

The grey skies seem to be pressing down on her very head, on her lungs: drown her in empty air faster than her heart can swim to keep up with it and whisk away all colour from the world before her eyes.

_Oh, so you're his cousin? Cool, how does it feel to have such a hottie for a relative? Tough luck, huh? _If only you knew, she thinks, pointedly refusing to laugh along with the Capitol woman, if only for the sake of principles. _So what does she think of his newly blossomed relationship with Madge? _She smiles as best she can, saying that she never knew before, but then again, she's never paid much attention to such things. _And about his choice of girl? _Madge is a nice girl, she says, reminding herself that she used to think to, at least, before the Games. Sensible, and trustworthy. _Are the girls in Twelve jealous of her? _She wouldn't know, she gets to state truthfully, since she actually doesn't have a clue what girls in Twelve think or do. _His chances in the final battle of the Games? _Here, she can actually talk freely, and puts on an air of certainty that she doesn't actually feel, to show the rest of Panem that they should bet their money on him.

And then the last question: _What would you say to him, if he could hear you now? _The question throws her; catches her off guard for a moment, and she feels her eyes go a little wide and her stony mask slip slightly as she grasps for words. In the end, a single line slips over her lips, and it's far from the heartfelt greeting that Halley clearly was expecting, because – she just can't find any words she would like to say to him that are suitable for national television, but at the same time, she feels too much to just let the opportunity slip.

"Shoot straight," she says through tight lips, and looks straight into the camera with eyes that for one second let show a world of betrayal, of grief and worries, of hunger and missing and – most of all – of that knife's edge that is to fall, or to stand tall through the storm. The cameras finally click off, and she thinks that it's lucky Gale won't be seeing this after all, because in her mind, after everything that has happened, he has no business knowing a single thing about how she feels.

They escort her to school afterwards, as if having been given orders to make sure she doesn't try to sneak off and skip classes again, and once she gets there, she realises at once that she's the centre of attention. Groups of boys and girls look up from their spots in the recess yard as she comes marching up with three Capitolite people flanking her sides: they point her way and whisper to each other behind barely shielding hands. She tries – really, really tries - to keep her face clean as a white sheet, void of any emotion, lest they would try to interpret it after their own preferences, but it bothers her way too much, all this speculation around her person.

She hears them tittering about _kissing_ and _Madge_ and _reaping day in the Justice Building_ – _Katniss_, and it's enough to make her blood boil and her insides cringe in longing to just get away, anywhere that isn't a place with other human beings with all their petty dabbling into other peoples private lives. Before these last few weeks, she has never ever before felt truly uncomfortable in her own skin, but now, it's as if she wants to crawl out of it, stop being this silly girl stuck in a never ending nightmare that is her life, and with no means to change it. Usually, she would be able to escape by going off into the woods and let the peace and quiet there cure her, but now even that seems to have disappeared, as if sucked into a giant black hole, an endless tunnel of darkness, that is the future. Above all, it's the words from this morning through a steady phone line that echoes over and over in her head: _we need an excuse for your existence._

What he means is that suddenly, she's liability to Gale; not just someone potentially insignificant, but an actual hindrance to his survival. So if only it weren't for her, he'd be a guaranteed Victor? Since when did things become this black and white, and so terribly complicated at the same time? She has done nothing but try to support him, done all in her might to take care of his family – which she doesn't really consider a great kindness, but more of a non-negotiable duty – and gotten the District to scrape together some means for him. Not that she's the kind of person to be particular about hearing a _thanks_, but this? If only she weren't here at home, burdening him with the history of their past… and for what reason is she a burden? Surely, she would think that a declaration of love for another girl on TV would suffice as evidence that there's nothing between them, but apparently, no. _Of course_, she would have to humiliate herself by asserting the lack of a matter at hand on camera, for everyone to see.

_The Games are never over_, Haymitch had said, too, and she is not even really surprised. It would almost be too easy, wouldn't it, if she could think of this misery as a temporary state, instead of the beginning of the rest of her life. She had been having a feeling this is what would happen all along, but hearing it now spelt out: final, makes it all even worse. What's the point in even trying, then?

As soon as the interviewing crew is out of sight, she's off.

* * *

The thing is, that the downhill slope has barely even begun at that. She knows, of course, that to skip school again is to openly play with fire, now that the Peacekeepers have their eyes on her, but that hardly seems to hatter anymore - or at least, that's what she had thought. She comes home late that night, bleary-eyed and barely registering what it is she's doing from exhaustion, only to find her mother sitting up at the kitchen table, her face white as a sheet.

She looks old, her back too straight for what's comfortable, and her hands wringing together nervously. "They came asking for you earlier," she says, in a voice that is smaller than Katniss has ever heard her sound.

For a split second, the camera crew comes to her mind, and she doesn't make the connection, because there's no need for her mother to look as if the world has gone to dust over that.

"Who?"

In the faint light, her mother's face is obscured in shadows, seemingly drawn and bone-tired. "The Peacekeepers, of course. You haven't been to school in two days."

Katniss sighs, and slumps back against the door. Strangely, she's doesn't feel as is this is the worst news yet, in any way – since really, how much worse could things get? She has the odd feeling of not really caring what happens anymore; so let them come, let whatever bad things she has inflicted upon herself ensue. She has no energy left to prevent them.

So when she awakes from an uneasy slumber the next morning to the sound of harsh banging on the door, she merely steels herself, and gets up to answer the door with a dull sense of inevitability. She tells her little sister that it's going to be fine, to please not cry and stay strong, and shares a grave look with her mother, before calmly allowing the two white-clad men in uniforms – both of them unfamiliar to her – take firm hold of her arms, and lead her away. She thinks they are trying to say something to her, possibly something about the charges upon which they are acting, but their voices are nothing but distant scattered noises to her ears: her mind is far, far away in a place where they can't touch her. Once, the thought strikes her that maybe she's causing a scene: being walked across town by law enforcement officials on a Tuesday morning is sure to be a source of much gossip once the District begins to fully wake up. At least they haven't put her in handcuffs or anything. Then she wonders what they are going to actually do with her, which is impossible to tell from just the crimes committed on her part, seeing as how arbitrary the legal system in Panem – not to mention Twelve – can be.

The situation reminds her of the day that Gale was reaped for the Games, so few weeks and yet a whole eternity ago. The whole way out of the Seam, past the processions of workers headed for the mines, through the Merchant quarters, across the town square that is already bustling with activity at this early hour, she keeps seeing the memories from that day in her mind: remembers how iron-strong her will had been when she had taken him by the arm, how guilelessly convinced she had been that things were going to work out in the end, simply because they _had to. _It seems like another life. How has she possibly been able to sink so low in just a few short weeks, so that she is now in this hopeless position?


	13. New dawn fades I

**A/N: **Ehrm yeah, so I promised the end of the Games in this chapter, I know, but the thing is...that didn't happen. I got to writing together the bits I already had, and then then some more, and suddenly the word count got absolutely insane. So instead of one giant chapter of 11 k words (which I feel would somehow upset the balance) I'm going to give you the chapter in two parts. One today, and the other one hopefully tomorrow, just so that you don't feel cheated out ;) And also, because I think this chapter is somewhat dull, compared to the second part of it...

I've gotta say it again: **thank you** to all readers, and to the wonderful, thoughtful reviews that you leave me. You guys make this the best hobby I ever had, by a long shot!

Some smart guest reviewer compared my Gale/Katniss situation to Finnick/Annie, which I hadn't even thought about, but it's a bit similar. Although, I don't plan on making Katniss lose her mind here, I've already done that thing in another story :p And, mind you, I'm a sucker for happy endings!

Enough, now let's get to the bottom of this misery... Let me know what you think!

* * *

Without a doubt, this is a new all-time low, but at the same time, Katniss is way past caring. She stays silent during the whole process of the arrest, as if were her lips sealed and her words forever stolen, while they escort her up the stairs to the Justice Building, through the giant double iron doors, and then down a broad set of stairs to the cellars below. It's rather dark and damp, with a smell of unclean bodies strong enough to choke her at first, but at least she's given one of the cells closest to the security gates, one with a sliver of a window and some semblance of daylight. The man leading her inside calls it a detention room, as opposed to the black pits at the end of the row, where criminals are put to be forgotten. The door closes, the lock clicks, and all at once, it's just her – and faint noises like coughs or whistling that indicates she is not alone down here. If it weren't for the odd sounds, she could almost go back to sleep.

She sits leaned against the bare stone wall, watching as trails of water make their way down from the window slit, as the patch of sunlight slowly move from one end of the small cell towards the other. After all, there's nothing else she can do, and waiting has always been one of her stronger traits. At one point, she wonders what Gale would say if he saw her now: if he would be more angry, disappointed, or maybe somehow magically worm her out of here, always a man with a plan - as he likes to call himself - in situations that require mediation. But then she remembers, she's not allowed to think like that anymore, not for her own sake or for his, so she pushes all such visions away from her mind with an irritable huff. Unfortunately, that only serves to increase them tenfold.

After an indeterminable long time of battling her own unrelenting mind, she's almost relieved when the guard comes again to get her – because surely anything is better than the restless worries of a body that is used to activity.

Wrong. Instead of taking her to a senior officer in order to announce her sentence, like she was somehow imagining they would, they make her stand in procession with the other dozen or so inmates, and march them off to an adjacent questioning room, temporarily serving as communal TV-room. Katniss groans inwardly as the other prisoners cheer darkly among themselves – an action that attracts immediate shouts of _quiet _from the gathered force of Peacekeepers. Seriously, can she not even escape the Games in detention? She slumps down in a hard metal chair at the very back of the four orderly arranged rows, and crosses her arms over her chest, trying stubbornly to focus her eyes on a point a little to the left of the television screen, keep them from flittering over to the flashing pictures.

She fails. What she sees, instead of just a stark white wall with odd, suspicious-looking dark flecks, is Gale in full action again – out to save Madge and risk his life all over again. This time in a very literal sense, as his mission is to retrieve a backpack of medicine that his district partner will doubtlessly die within a day without. The clip is a recap of the morning's events, where the Gamemakers forced the remaining teams of tributes together by promising them a gift of the thing that they need the most. At dawn at the Cornucopia, that's where each of their packs had been, and thus, an eventful morning of the Games had been guaranteed.

If it weren't for the clever girl from Five, who had apparently been hiding in the Cornucopia itself since last night and dashed out of it as soon as the gifts appeared, snatching her backpack in motion and disappearing off, Gale would be first on spot, as he dashes wildly to the centre of the square. He has the bag in his hand, hesitating just a second with his eyes on the remaining two ones, obviously wondering if he should risk stealing those too, but then he's not alone anymore. He realises there's someone else in the clearing a moment too late, and whips around just as a small projectile whirls straight at him. Reflexively, he ducks, but the knife finds its target nevertheless, slicing across his forehead in a sharp arch that makes Katniss' heart stop for a long moment. But Gale merely straightens up, fixating his attacker with a glare more deadly than any throwing knife in even Clove's arsenal, and then Katniss gets to see her painstakingly expensive gifts come to good use. Clove is rushing for him head-on, arms close to her body and prepared for whatever fight he may have in him – at least, that is what she thinks. But armed with the precision and swiftness of the metal-crested arrows that he is used to handling from home, she doesn't stand a chance. The arrow tears across the distance like a bullet form a gun, finds it target with lethal ease, and embeds itself deep in the District 2 girl's stomach. She falls to the ground, eyes wide and screaming in anger, knives falling feebly from her hands as her body ceases all control.

"Straight enough," mutters Katniss, while trying meticulously to slow her frantic breathing, trying to compose her face to its normal expressionless state. It's almost as if he'd heard her greeting from the interview the other day. Then again, she still hopes not.

The main thing is, that at the edge of the forest, where Clove had come from, two other figures fighting are clearly visible, so Gale has no time to stop and question what he just did: he just grabs the backpack with a large print of 12 on it, and runs straight for the woods on the opposite side from them. When the cannon goes off a moment later, a flash of horror appears on his sweat-streaked face. Three times has he had close encounters with the female tribute from Two, but in the end, he has killed her with barely a fight for preamble. That's three deaths now, delivered by him with sure, albeit forced hands – and they're all Careers. She wonders – not for the first time – what he thinks about that, if the figurative blood on his hands haunts him day and night, or if he's strong enough to push the entire thing out of his mind. Most likely, it's the latter, seeing as how he's almost mechanically determined in all that he's doing.

She has seen nothing of how things have progressed in the last two days, but from what she can tell from the commentary, there hasn't been a whole lot going on. Apart from the audience swooning over Gale's heartfelt attempts to keep Madge alive, that is – hour upon hour spent dissecting every single action taken between the two of them; shockers like _cooking soup, changing bandages _or why not _watching her sleep while waiting for the water to boil. _

To say the least, Katniss is not impressed, and neither are the hardy criminals inhabiting the District jail, it would seem. Judging from their subtle communicated nods and pointers, they like him better finishing off Careers one after the other, like the hardened young man from a poor background that he appears to be – like someone who has a shot at winning the Games without bothering with the Mayor's pretty daughter. But then she catches two of the men on first row glancing at each other, leering as they're shown a flashback to the two tributes getting ready for the night in their small cave, and she realises that the "star-crossed lovers"-story appeals to more than just starry-eyes teenage girls in the Capitol. Both Gale and Madge certainly have the looks to pull off a successful romantic vibe, and together, they easily live up to their given epithet of _on fire._

She sort of hates them a little bit for it.

In comparison, watching the two tributes from Two and Eleven locked in an unarmed fight is not so bad at all, despite the raw violence of it – blood flying and bones crunching and teeth dislodging. In the end, it's a bad day for District 2, as the boy from Eleven wins out by sheer force of muscle, and knocks Cato's head against the trunk of a massive oak tree, not quite so hard that he passes out, but leaving him dizzy and unable to get back up on his feet for a moment. Unfortunately, the blow has landed the Career right beside the spot where his sword was discarded earlier in the fight, and seeing his disadvantage, the other guy makes a run for it instead of going in for the kill.

Thus, the morning's action has left one tribute dead, and District 2 without their required supply, since Eleven had run off with both his own and Cato's pack. The viewing ends by showing Gale stumbling back into the cave up in the hills, half bled-out and exhausted from lack of sleep and adrenaline impacts but with just enough energy left to stick the needle of a syringe into Madge's upper thigh, before collapsing in a heap down beside her.

Back in Twelve, the rest of the day continues like that, either in the glum solitude of her cell - where her thoughts continue to keep her unwelcome company; her mind spinning around and around in endless loops of searching for answers that aren't there – or in the makeshift TV-room, where the cold, hard metal numbs her lower body and the scenes in front of her eyes distress her mind. Come the evening, the events of the Hunger Games have moved on to concern _only_ the doomed lovers of District 12, and Katniss finds herself wanting to sink down through the bare stone floor, preferably into the depths of the Underworld, or whatever other place where she could never again be found. Especially since the other people in the room have gotten around to recognise her from the interviews that aired last night on prime evening television-time, and they keep twisting their head around to stare at her with suggestive eyes. She is quite sure they take extra pleasure in seeing her obvious discomfort, if only because they know she must be suffering, being close friends with a tribute. _Cousins_. Oh, if they knew the whole truth…

Others just stare impassively ahead of them, as if barely seeing the flashing motion pictures, but Katniss avoids carefully looking at those men, since it's too obvious – frighteningly so – that they've been down here longer than their minds have been able to handle. Withered bodies; craned backs, prematurely white hair, sunken, greyish skin, and she's only grateful she can't see their eyes, scared of what she would find there. Maybe they're only here as a warning, a demonstration that death is not necessarily the worst thing the Law can sentence you to. She vows to herself never to find out, to be smarter from now on, no matter what. That is, if there's even going to be a from now on.

She waits all evening, while trying not to watch Gale and Madge wake up snuggled together, for someone to come and call her up to sentencing, but nothing happens, and the stress of waiting serves to enhance her general tension. Everywhere else is just white walls, white uniforms, in contrast to dirty skin and dark intentions, and the minutes have never seemed to move so slowly ever before.

Madge wakes up, miraculously freed from fever and infection, her leg healed apart from just a broad red line where just a few hours ago there was a gaping, infested wound. Seeing Gale all bloody and passed out beside her gives her a fright, but to her credit, she handles it rather well. He comes to when the antibacterial gel stings his forehead, but stays still all through her careful bandaging, even makes a half-hearted joke about it being _damn time_ she got to repay the favour of playing doctor.

"I can never repay you for what you did," she says instead, disarming him with her sincerity, like so many times before. The funny thing is, honesty seems to be the key to shutting him up.

Sitting up against the wall, Gale looks an absolute mess: his suddenly too large clothes are partly torn in both arms, legs and front, there are smudges of dirt and blood covering large parts of his face and hands. The tiredness in his eyes says he could probably sleep for weeks, if given the possibility, but despite all that, he looks at her with nothing but warmth and contentment, as if this situation is at least the best possible under the circumstances.

"You already did, before," he points out, giving her leg a close inspection to see for himself the improvement.

"Only barely," she counters, looking rather thoughtful. In the murky daylight, it's clear that her appearance has seen better days, too. Her hair is plastered to her head in matted stripes, and her eyes are rather sunken: sure signs of the nearly fatal fever that has burned her from inside during the last few days.

"That reminds me," continues Gale, raising his chin to look straight at her, "what on earth was that move of yours about, joining up with the Careers?" He sounds controlled, but angry, and maybe a tiny bit disappointed. "I thought you said you trusted me?"

"For my own part, yes," she answers cautiously, after a moment's thought, watching him as if she's not sure how much she should be saying. "But not when it comes to _you_."

His eyebrows crinkle, obscuring his eyes from the light to make them seem darker than their actual light grey. "You don't trust _me _with me?"

"In regard to _me_, no." She reaches out a pale hand, flips over his hand that is still by her leg to brush her fingers along his palm, before squeezing their hands together. "I knew you had something planned. I could see that you were so confident in those last few days before the launch, but at the same time, you seemed so… grim. Like you had decided on something that was not the best thing for _you_, but the best thing according to some ideal that you thought were more important than your own life."

She pauses, looks up from their entwined hands to meet his eyes again, checking his reaction to the statement. His mildly baffled face says it all: she's on to something.

He gulps down his surprise, and admits: "That's partly it, yeah."

"So, I had my suspicions about what exactly those ideals were, but I wasn't too sure. Not until, you know, that night of the interview-" a slight blush creeps up across her cheekbones, and for a second, she looks just like the young girl she actually is, despite the gruesome setting. "And then, I couldn't let you go through with it."

"Why?"

"Maybe I'm just a control freak," she tries, her lip quirking up in a half-smile and her cheeks still bright red.

He, however, is still searching her face with narrowed eyes, clearly none too pleased with the answer, or with her admitted lack of trust in him.

"Oh come on, Gale," she relents, rolling her eyes a little. "You know why."

"You had me sedated by a poisonous dart!" he points out, incredulous, but rightly so.

"That was for your own good. Otherwise, you would have put up a fight, and they would have killed you right there and then."

"Thanks for the trust," he bites out, voice as dry as tinder. She only meets his raised eyebrow with a pointed look, clearly sure of herself. "So what, your plan was to stick as close as possible to the Careers, just in case they would find me?"

"_Until_ they found you, silly. Not _if_." Their faces are rather close at this stage, both pairs of eyes wide in the heat of the argument.

"Silly? Who's silly, when we could have just worked together from the start?"

Answering a question with another, she says: "Why did you even want to team up with me from the start?"

"I thought you said you had figured that out? Shouldn't have been too hard, after all, since I spelled it out in words" he retorts, and at this stage, his hard frown has been replaced with a playful little smile, that shines all the way to his eyes. "But you still haven't answered the original question."

With a wry smirk of her own, she lifts an eyebrow at him. "I don't think you have," she says, meeting his eyes full on. "Spelled it out in words, I mean. Not like I have. Or did you forget?"

Katniss hasn't. The _trust me please, because I love you, _right before their escape from the Careers had haunted a fair share of her nightmares. It's a dead-on battle of wills happening on screen, one of the flirtatious kind, that makes her insides cringe wildly and her hands twitch to cover simultaneously both ears and eyes, but knowing she's unable to do either. Please, don't make her watch as –

"The reason I couldn't -" begins Madge, but at the same time, Gale blurts out: "What I meant was that –"

They both stop, mouths half-open, eyes locked in the same urgent emotion. He freezes, but she, on the other hand, draws in a long breath, and goes right ahead.

"I love you," she whispers, and the words are as short, quick and shaky, as they are definitive. "I really do."

All the air seems to go out of the boy in front of her, and the urgency melts out of his eyes, until they are as gentle and vulnerable as they have ever been before. With a quick gesture, he waves her over, stretches his strong arms out to gather her to him, and then he kisses her: not as gently and carefully as he had the other night, but with skilled force that makes it all so much more intimate, almost indecent for national television.

Katniss does not know where to look, swivels her gaze around in a nervous flutter, while gritting her teeth and trying to supress the onslaught of hot, poisonous jealousy that snakes around her heart, threatens to suffocate her if she lets it spread. But there's nowhere else to look, making her feel like a deer caught on a hunt, in the moment just before the kill.

"That's exactly what I meant," Gale smirks when he breaks away, as if triumphant he won the stare-down earlier, but the whole effect is kind of ruined by how breathless he sounds while saying it. However, he does not repeat those thre little words, but that hardly matters, as his action says it all.

_White_. Her knuckles are as white as the floor, and the walls, and as white as the cold, frost-laced feeling that spreads slowly through her insides, permeates even the thickest layer of protection that she thought she had woven in place all over again. It leaves her mind numb, but strangely over-active; like a conscious being, trapped in a comatose body, alive and yet fully incapacitated: and her tongue swollen up, like she could never again make it utter a single sound. Behind her eyes is an increasing, hot pressure, but her lenses are dry, to the point where she has to blink over and over, to keep them from stinging. She's vaguely aware of something else happening on screen, of more whispered words and the faint ringing of silver bells, but she doesn't really see any more of it.

The night is longer than any she has ever experienced before - except maybe for that time she doesn't like to think about, when she waited until dawn for any news of her father after the mine explosion that killed him - darker and more full of strange noises than ever the woods at night. Once every hour, she thinks, a guard comes in to patrol the row of cells, bringing with him a single electric lantern that faintly illuminates the prison with an eerie, blue-white light, in which she can she quick glimpses of things: the gleam of an eye turned her way, white teeth grinning in a skull-like face, black metal tight around a man's wrists. Needless to say, sleep is out of the question. It's not that she's squeamish, or even particularly frightened even, as she knows that despite their ghastly appearances, these are just people, and there are thick iron bars in between them and her. It's just the stress, and the nagging, stomach-churning uncertainty of not knowing what tomorrow will bring, that really gets to her. The hatred of not being free to form her own future, and not even knowing for how long. From far down the pitch-black corridor, she can hear someone laugh: a hollow, ghostly rattling noise that turns her blood into ice every time she hears it just by the sheer lack of humanity in it. It's the sound of having been down here so long, that he has forgotten what living is like, and _that_ is not something she would like to know what it feels like.

Come morning, she is sitting curled up with her arms around her knees on the damp floor, staring bleakly into the opposite wall with unseeing eyes and with her entire body frozen stiff. She's thinking it's lucky she has already known a great deal of hardship in her life, or these hours of utter deprivation would have surely driven her half out of her mind. When she hears the lock in the security door rattle, she looks up to see two men in white uniforms enter, and her hope flares when she sees the more important-looking of them bearing a complex, electronic unlocking device in his hand. Just like she had thought, they stop in front of her heavy metal door, hold the machine against an electronic disc in it, and step back as the door swings open mechanically with a grinding noise.

Without a word, they each grip one of her arms, and lead her out of the cell, neither of them actually looking at her but treating her as if she were an animal, or a supply that they'd been instructed to carry up from the basement. She supposes that to them, she is no better than that really, since they've been trained to care about nothing but the Law since a young age. These aren't her relaxed Peacekeepers who hang out in the Hob, but the younger ones who are required to tour the different districts before getting assigned a permanent position.

They take her upstairs, into a strict-looking and formal, but seemingly more public room, where there are rows of clerk desks along one wall, and a few people seated in chairs along another, appearing to be waiting for something. At two of the desks, which are partitioned from the open area by thick glass screens, two different defeated-looking men are standing, appearing to be listening to something unpleasant being said to them. It would seem this is the sentencing room, for lesser crimes committed that require only a certain degree of supervision. At both ends of the room are metal doors with heavy security locks on them, and with a row of coloured light above the frame. One of them blinks red, while the other one is turned off. Overhead, the stark white fluorescent lights are the only other source of light, but it rids the room of any shadows, despite the complete lack of windows.

The two guards march her up to the unoccupied desk in the middle of the opposite wall from where they entered, where a male Peacekeeper in his fifties or so is seated on the other side of the glass shield. He looks up from his paperwork when they come to a halt in front of him, and regards Katniss with impassive eyes for only a fleeting second, before turning his eyes to her escorts. They state a five-digit number, and the man looks down again, scanning a screen in front of him for a full minute.

In an emotionless, clinical voice, he reads out loud from his records: "Detainee 11289, you are hereby released from holding, having sat out your full sentence of detention without further incidents. Provided that you pay the whole fine of your crime upfront, or before noon today, you are free to go home. Your interference with the Law will be recorded, and should you be encountered committing any further offenses, you will not be as mildly treated, you can rest assured."

Katniss blinks in surprise, partly from the unfamiliar, formal way he's addressing her, and partly from struggling to keep up with his words.

"What fine?"

The clerk spares a short glance her way, before answering with badly hidden contempt: "The penalty, that you incidentally brought upon yourself by forgoing mandatory viewings of the 74th Annual Hunger Games, and by deliberately neglecting school duty. Four gold coins."

She gapes at him. "_Four gold coins_? But I don't have that much money, I -"

"That's the fee, girl. Pay today, or else you will be sent to work in the mines until you have earned the entire sum in wages. That will be about a month's work, twelve hours a day and six days a week." The man looks void of any emotion still, except there's a hint of something like spitefulness in his eyes.

For a split second, there's only astonished blankness in her mind, but then – gradually, comes the pang of fear, anger and injustice that leaves her reeling and her mouth dry. She's unable to find words, grasping for a way out of it, for something to say to them that will get her out of this nightmare, but comes up blank. _The mines; _a month of work, deep down in the darkness that she fears most of all in the whole world. A month where she her family would have to survive only on her mother's meagre incomes. What will become of them then? _Starvation. _And for her? _Death?_

Her heart beats faster and faster, until it is hammering at the pace of a frightened animal, and her palms are sweaty and her head thudding in a desperate effort to think. Is there anything of value that she could sell? Anyone with a debt big enough to her, who she could borrow from?

"State your payment method," demands the clerk, his tone impatient.

She opens her mouth, but closes it again, swallowing and searching for words still, knowing she's running out of time but unable to think of any plausible way out of this. Out of the corner of her eyes, her trained hunter's senses makes her notice a movement: the left-hand door open and close, admitting a sole figure into the room, but she pays it no more mind.

She's still struggling for something to say, knowing that the ultimate sentence is drawling closer and closer, when a sombre, authoritarian voice speaks up from just behind her.

"Is there a problem here?"

Surprised, the two Peacekeers still flanking her spin around to face the intruder, which allows Katniss to do the same. Before her stands a woman in fine merchant clothes: a grey cotton dress that falls down below her knees and a short, chequered jacket. She looks to be about the same age as her mother, and looking oddly alike her, too, in something about the way her mouth seems permanently turned down at the ends, her cheeks sunken and her colouring faded from long years of sorrow. Katniss thinks that she recognises her from somewhere, but cant quite place it.

The man to her right immediately straightens his back at the sight of the older woman, and answers in a formal voice: "Not at all, Mrs Undersee. This criminal is simply being explained her charged fine, and the methods of payment."

Of course, that explains her familiar face. This is the Mayor's wife, Madge's mother, who is currently boring her expressionless eyes into Katniss' face, with her lips pursed in thought. "What is her charge?"

"She has omitted mandatory Hunger Games viewing, ma'am," answers the Peacekeeper dutifully, still at attention.

Mrs Undersee continues to study her, crossing her arm absently over her chest and tipping her head slightly to the side. Something in her expression softens just a little, until she looks almost wryly amused, and Katniss thinks that perhaps it's true what they say in the District gossip: that this woman lost her mind years ago and has fallen back to a lifeless existence of sickness and mourning. However, here she stands straight, with her eyes very sharp, and she supposes that being married to the juridical overhead of Twelve, she gets her will in whatever she deals with here.

"Has she now?" muses the Mayor's wife, her voice very dry. Of course, it hits Katniss, this woman has no reason to even hold up an appearance of supporting the Games this year. Her own daughter has very nearly died on a number of occasions, and most likely, the only reason she's strong enough to face other people, is because Madge is currently relatively safe and well off. "And what is her fine?" she asks then, still only looking straight at Katniss, who looks right back, eyes steady.

"Four gold coins, ma'am," repeats the Peacekeeper in charge.

Mrs Undersee quirks an eyebrow, and something like recognition flashes in her eyes. She reaches into her purse hanging off one shoulder, and fishes up a rather fat purse, while Katniss can only stare, and feel her eyes grow wide in amazement. Four small golden desks appear in the woman's hand, and are steadily handed over across the space to the guard who has been answering her questions.

"There. It's all paid and forgotten about now."

The three men all try their best to hide their surprise, but she can see it in the way they all tense up just a little bit; the man holding the coins even blinks. But true to their manners, they do not question higher authority, and the coins are simply passed on to the clerk at the desk, who writes out a small slip of paper while they regard him in silence.

"Take this with you and show it to the guard at the gate as you exit," says the official, handing the paper note to Katniss while somehow still managing to avoid eye contact.

Numb with confusion, she accepts the note, and turns around to take a few hesitant steps away from the station, still not quite believing she's free to leave.

"Come along, girl," says Mrs Undersee, starting out ahead of her but clearly expecting her to follow behind.

Once outside the door, she turns to go the opposite way from the entry gate, and Katniss remembers that the Mayor's residence is directly connected to the Justice Building.

"Thank you," she blurts out, and the woman turns around again to look at her, as if surprised to see her still standing there. Her stony mask has slipped a little since leaving that room behind, and suddenly, Katniss is certain that the woman recognises her, maybe as a friend of Madge's, or possibly from that damned interview that she, too, would have participated in. In her eyes, she can see the same bone-deep tiredness that she knows she radiates herself, and even a look of pity that she doesn't quite know how to interpret.

"You're welcome," comes the answer, quiet and rather cautiously pronounced. "Let's just hope they'll live."

The Mayor's wife turns around and walks off down through the great hall, leaving Katniss standing there and looking after her for a few perplexed moments, before shaking herself, and exiting the Justice Building as quickly as possible, hoping she'll never have to see the insides of it ever again.


	14. New dawn fades II

**A/N: **Alright, alright, I know I said I'd post this last night, and I'm terrible sorry I didn't! But believe me, the extra day was well worth it, because now the second part is as dramatic as the ending of the Games deserves to be :) I just needed an extra day to perfect it (or at least, to be quite happy with it myself...)

As it turned out, it's also super long, so in trade for another day, you got an extra 2k words, isn't that fair?

Really anxious to see what you you think, so don't hesitate to review!

* * *

Against all her protesting instincts, she knows she has no choice but to attend school that day. She gets there just in time for her first class, after a quick stop by her house to change out of her spoilt clothes, reeking of filth and dampness and stale air as they are. Her family greet her with fervent cries of elation, but there's not really any time for heartfelt reunions, and for that, Katniss is very thankful. Her head is pounding, and now that she has gotten rid of her anxiety about being locked up, a tirade of other dejected emotions flare up to the surface instead, making her yearn for solitude.

Prim still talks non-stop all the way to school, gripping her hand in a steely hold that reminds Katniss that there's still actually someone concerned for her wellbeing, as much as she tends to forget about it. Her little sister talks of how worried they've all been, of Hazelle's anger when she found out what had happened to her and of how relieved she'll be to hear that she's back. Katniss' guilty conscience flares upon the mention of Gale's family, as she realises that she hasn't been to check on them for two days, and at the same time, her belly clenches at the thought of seeing them. She cares for them all, just as if they were her own family, she _does_ - it's just that she doesn't think she can stand the reminder of him up that close, right now. Her sister assures her that they're all doing fine, at least, so maybe she needn't worry so much, as long as she brings in enough game for them too this evening. Just before they part ways outside the school building, Prim asks, in a small voice, biting her lip as if unsure if it's the right thing to bring it up: "Did you see the Games last night?"

Katniss heaves a great sight, wishing more than ever she could just sink through the ground, or turn invisible, or whatever would be practical at this moment. Instead, she turns bright red, stares off in the distance as she nods once, and then walks away.

That day, school hours are blissfully void of any interfering television time, but passes as slow as they ever have, while she tries her best to avoid all probing gazes and murmured comments aimed her way. She counts down the minutes until she can escape out to her only free zone, where it's just her and something useful that needs doing to clear her mind, but it's just wont come soon enough. And then, on the last break before the end of the day, her private sphere is once again disturbed, by someone who seems to think that they are friends now, or something, judging by the way he keeps talking to her at regular intervals.

"Hey, Katniss," calls Thom Crandale, jogging up to her in the quiet corner of the recess yard where she's hidden herself away. A few people look up to watch in surprise as he approaches her, as anything happening to her seems to concern everybody these days. Thankfully though, no one else is in close perimeter.

As she finds herself not exactly minding his company, she says _hi_ back, and leans back against the stone wall with her arms crossed.

"Is it true you went to jail?" he asks, with a weirdly open grin and eyes sparkling with something like appreciation.

In her dazed, sleep-deprived state, she can almost find it funny, too. Funny in an absurd, twisted and absolutely miserable way, that is. "Yeah," she confirms, although it's rather unnecessary. "For skipping viewings. Got out this morning."

Thom shakes his head in disbelief, clearly no more understanding of the punishment that she has received than she is. "That's pretty hardcore," he says, with a good-natured grin that has an edge to it, as if he would like to say something to her support, but knows it would be too obvious in a place like this.

Katniss shrugs, but feels a small smile come to her lips as she realises this guy would most likely do the exact same thing, if he had to, and that he somewhat likes her for her act of defiance. Maybe they _are_ becoming friends, after all. For her, not minding someone is sort of like other people finding someone charming.

For the second time today, someone regards her with a speculative look on their face, as if trying to decide whether she is worth their attention or not.

"Oh, screw it," she hears Thom mutter under his breath, a second later. "I'm not supposed to invite people, but you're in."

Her one eyebrow rises in confusion. "In what?"

Avoiding the direct question, he bends in a bit closer, pretending to study the _Prohibited activities_-sign that she's leaning against. "Meet us at the back door of the Hob on Sunday evening at eight," he mumbles, almost too low for her to hear, while not looking at her. His whole demeanour radiates calm indifference, but his eyes are urgent on hers, telling her _secret_ like his words can't.

Her eyes narrow instinctively. "Who's _us_?" she mutters back, while studying a finger nail with great, feigned interest.

"Those who aren't afraid," he answers vaguely, but in his eyes are a calm severity, that carry the words further than they otherwise would go.

"And you think I'm not, either?"

She looks up to see him grinning down at her again, his boyish, freckled face scrunched up and his ears standing out comically through his short, black hair.

"I know you're not," he says, and then turns to saunter off into the yard, with one last look over his shoulders. "So, see you there?"

It's probably stupid, way more trusting and careless than anything she would normally do, but right here and now, with this feeling that things can't get much worse than they already are, and with the deep, churning anger of injustice still fresh in her mind, she says: "See you there," and wonders passively what she's gotten herself into.

* * *

Katniss stares disbelieving at the boy occupying her tiny front porch when she gets back home after hunting that same day. What is this, universal make friends with Katniss-day? She is literally on her last ounce of energy, grasping at straws just to make her feet shuffle forward and fighting to keep her eyes open – she does _not _have any patience for further socializing, that's for sure. But here is Peeta Mellark now, smiling expectantly at her as she approaches the stairs, and following her with his eyes as she comes to a halt just below them, deposing of her game bag by her feet to stretch her back. She notices quickly that there's no light filtering through their impeccably polished windows – her mother has some sort of neurosis on wiping away the coal dust each morning – and comes to the conclusion that her family must be away on medical calls. She might still feel like she's in some kind of debt for her life to this boy, and that will always make her feel a certain connection to him, but right now… She wants him to please vanish off the surface of the earth.

"There was no one at home," starts Peeta, rising up from his seated position to stand before her. "So I decided to sit down and wait for you." Just like last time he approached her, he doesn't let her unfriendly expression deter him, in any way, but smiles right on with his somewhat annoyingly open and friendly face.

All she wants, really _all _in the world that she wants at this moment, is to head inside, and curl up under her ratty old blanket and pretend like the world outside has ceased to exist. So therefore, her answer may not be of the most polite kind. "What do you want?" she says, deadpan blank expression as she studies him.

For a split second, he looks contrite, almost a little offended, she thinks, but then he composes his face again, puts on an air of worry. "I heard… what happened yesterday. I just wanted to say I hope you're alright."

She stares at him, blinking several times, just to check so that she hasn't already fallen asleep while, say, walking, and her mind is conjuring up weird scenarios. Squinting, she decides that no, he's here alright, because she could never remember his features in such details, were she asleep. The soft lines of his face, the broadness of his shoulders, or the rye blonde of his hair, very much like the shade of her little sister's, in fact: they're all unfamiliar to her, like she cant quite remember having ever thought of them before. In her insomniac state, they stand out suddenly, much more so than his words do, until she finds herself thinking that other girls would probably find him attractive - and misses something he says.

"Hm?" She blinks again, slowly, and them several times in quick succession, when she finds him suddenly in very close proximity.

"I said, I brought you some more – "

"What do you care if I'm alright?" she cuts him off, as the thought appears in her mind, about a minute too late.

He meets her gaze with a steady, rather intense one of his own, one that makes the little worry wrinkle between his eyes deepen slightly and his face go softer, all at the same time. It's kind of unsettling, in a very powerful way that makes her unable to look away and her head spin; making her wobble a little on her feet, her upper body swaying drowsily. In a flash, his hands shoot out to steady her, form a tight grip around both sides of her shoulders.

Too dazed to react fast, and too surprised to do anything but just stare astonished at his new nearness, his face just inches from hers, she is trapped there, noticing in a stray thought that he smells of fresh bread.

"Katniss," he murmurs, his voice low and loaded with feeling that makes her heart speed up in something like fear, "I always cared. I…" his voice trails off, but the intensity in his eyes only increases, while she can only helplessly watch.

What happens next, in a shocked blur, is that somehow, his lips are abruptly pressed against her own ones, his neck bent down and his hands firmly holding her in place. His mouth is soft, warm and absolutely pliant, moulded against her own half-open ones. Completely unprepared, it takes a good long moment for her lips to stiffen, before she fully understands what's going on here. This is not like that time when Gale kissed her in the Justice building, she thinks, when her body had instinctively responded to his, lips returning the pressure by their own will. No, indeed, she realises she has her eyes fully open, staring startled at the little hairs on his cheek, since they're close enough to see. That little detail is finally what makes her snap out of this hazy, surreal bubble that seems to have incapacitated her mind, and she shoves at his chest forcefully with both hands, pushing him away to an acceptable distance.

His eyes snap open, and his face looks stricken, his head still slumping forward a little.

"What are you _doing_?" Her eyes are wide as saucers, as she's gaping up at him, with way more confusion, than the taken wonder that he would have foolishly hoped for. But that's fine too, until that hardens into an outraged scowl, which is just what he had feared - and for once in his life, Peeta Mellark can find no suitable words for the situation, one that he had imagined many times before, but never with quite this outcome.

She sticks a finger in his chest, and backs away a step, while accusing him.

"Do you think, that just because _he_ is gone away, you can suddenly waltz in and expect me to need your protection? Because I don't!" She is seething with anger over this clueless boy, but at seeing his sad eyes still staring honestly into hers, she draws a deep sigh, and softens her voice. "I'm sorry. I just… I can't."

Their eyes meet again for a split second, before she averts them to stare down on the ground, hoping for the millionth time today that is would swallow her whole. His are sad, but gently so, as if what he's feeling is more like compassion than disappointment. Still, his question catches her off guard. "Is it because you love him?" he asks, voice quiet.

"No!" she says forcefully, but it's much too quick, and said with much too much feeling for anyone to believe it. She might as well have said it plain and clear; _yes._

Peeta smiles then, and reaches out to catch her hand and squeeze it once, before walking backwards a few steps, careful to give her the distance she so clearly needs again.

"Then you have nothing to be sorry about, Katniss," he says, and it sounds kind of like a goodbye, but one of the warm kind, before he turns around and starts off down the winding dirt road where he has surely never set foot before this day. Watching him disappear out of sight, she wonders at once how he knew where she lives.

When she turns around to climb the three steps up to her front door, she finds a brown paper bag standing next to where he was just sitting, and realises he has left behind a gift for her, without even asking permission. Lucky for him she's too tired to be pissed off.

* * *

After that day, all waking hours seems to turn into a blur of sluggish movement, of light in various degrees, as if the motions of her life has been collected, chopped up into little pieces and then jumbled, played before her eyes in slow motion. She blinks, and an hour might have passed, but it could just as well have been a minute. At the same time, sleep is not much better, back to being a string of nightmares in various degrees of disturbing: from the ones that only make her toss around restlessly, to the worst ones, that will make her bolt upright in the darkest hours of the night, from which it takes forever until her breathing slows. In the mornings, right before she heads out to the woods for her round of hunting before school, she wakes up with hands shaking and her forehead clammy with sweat; and in the evenings, she's close to comatose, too tired to talk to anyone as she gets home from the forest again. She makes very sure to always be home in time for mandatory watching of the Games, and she doesn't miss a single class, and the funny thing is, she doesn't even really mind. On the other hand, she can't remember a single minute from school lately, and while hunting, her mind runs of autopilot, barely registering a single move. The worst part thus, is still the damn Games, because try as she might, there is no way for her to watch them without _seeing_, her mind on hyper-alert when she would most wish for it to turn off.

Two days pass of seeing Gale and Madge holed up in their cave, where nothing much happens except for gift after gift raining down from the sky as they spin along their star-crossed lovers routine. The commentators rave on about how miraculous it is for the Hunger Games to produce a love story like this, and how blessed they are that the Gamemakers have been so generous as to allow for two Victors this year. Then three days, and at last Gale has recovered from his injury and Madge is as healed as she will get from her leg trauma, and they decide it's time to move on, as soon as the new day dawns.

In the dimmed cafeteria, the school children of Twelve get to watch as their tributes end up killing the girl from Five by the most eventless fashion yet in this year's Games. It's Gale who realises someone is on their trail, but Madge who plots to get the girl to eat poisonous berries that she gathers under the pretention of saving them for dinner, while Gale is off hunting. He gets back, rushed by the sound of the canon, to find his district partner slumped down on the ground beside a small pile of dark blue berries, tears streaking down her face as she tells him that she tricked Five into eating them. He looks a tad distressed, but reminds her that no matter what, the girl had to die for them to live, and assures her it was better this way, since at least she did not have to die by violence, or in fear.

"But how do you handle it?" she asks, looking up at him with green eyes shining in the sunlight. "Don't you feel like a killer?"

"I'd rather be a killer, than be dead," he replies in clipped tones, but it's evident from the wild look in his eyes, that the words are not what his heart tells him.

Katniss goes to visit his family that evening – in person, rather than sending Prim over with their share of her trades and catches – but ends up only staying for a short while.

"Have you seen, Gale has a _girlfriend_ on TV now," explodes Posy, after rushing up to hug her as she comes through the door. "She's really, really pretty, too! Everyone thinks so," she goes on to explain, clearly not noticing how the older girl's face turns a little more drawn, her answering smile fading.

"There now, honey, that's enough," scolds Hazelle gently, coming around the corner from the kitchen area. When she looks up from her toddler daughter and sees Katniss, she stars at first, and a concerned expression spreads across her features. Self-consciously, Katniss pokes at the haggard pouches under her eyes, pinches her cheeks to make them come alive with the colour of her blood.

"But she _is,_" Posy insists. "And Rory says that everyone is betting on them to come home now, even in the Capitol!" The way she says _come home_ rather than _live_ is enough to make anyone flinch.

Handing over a wrapped package of fresh fish, and a small stack of roots and herbs, Katniss sighs, but spares a tight smile for Gale's little sister. "They will, don't you worry Pose," she says, because at some stage, she has even begun to believe it herself, despite knowing that it will only make it so much worse, if he doesn't live But at the same time, the future is a bleak concept these days, and the only really positive thing she has to look forward to, once the Games are over without a disastrous outcome, is the potential of a full night's sleep – so hope means very little.

Hazelle, taking the food from her hands and thanking her sincerely, regards her for a long moment afterwards. "Remember, Katniss," she says, with and odd note of hesitation in her normally so self-assured voice, "that you are stronger than you think."

Katniss looks at the floor impassively, feeling her mind try to absorb this little piece of advice, but failing, as her thinking process seems to be stuck in a permanent loop of exhaustion these days. She simply mutters a detached _yeah, yeah_, and pushes out the door again, deciding that even the Hawthornes are too much company right now.

As it turns out, it is her own mother who steps in to fill the void, and finally manages to reach her, that same evening after dinner. Mrs Everdeen watches her first-born daughter pick at her small meal of stew, barely even forcing down a fraction of the portion Prim devours, and she notices her slipping further and further away from the present time, in a fashion that is all too familiar to her sensitive mind. When for the third time she has reminded the pale girl to take a bite of food, she decides it's time to speak up.

"That's enough now."

Katniss turns her head up from where it is staring down into her bowl, leaning against her hand, which in turn is propped up against the table. "What?"

"I said enough," repeats the woman who, as of lately, is very aware her oldest daughter is still only a young girl, who feels and thinks about other things than survival - on occasion at least. "You need to stop this, what you're doing to yourself."

Katniss feels her cheeks sprout two angry red blotches, as an inexplicable sense of injustice rises to the surface from its burial place deep within her heart. Abruptly, she rises out of her rickety chair, and finds her voice loud and clear, for once. "I'm up, I'm walking, I'm getting you all food. What more do you want from me?"

"I want you to _live_, Katniss," explains her mother painstakingly, looking at her with too much compassion for Katniss to stand it.

"I'm not the one whose life's in danger," she mutters, averting her eyes and noticing Prim is nowhere to be seen in the room. Never has she felt more exposed, alone in a small space with her mother, who has chosen this moment to transform from someone almost invisible, to an actual mother, demanding her entire attention.

"Well, from the look of you, you might as well be," the other woman says in a blunt, direct voice that makes Katniss cringe. "I know a thing or two about that, if you would just let me help you -"

"I'm _not_ like you," she spits vehemently, interrupting before she has to hear any more. "You don't see me laying in bed and crying all day long, do you?" Her voice is too loud, livid, and she knows that Prim can hear her from the other room, but she can't stop this tirade form happening, now that it's started.

"You are handling it your way, that's what you're doing." Mrs Everdeen crosses her arms across her chest, somewhat uneasy with this topic of conversation, too, but determined to go on. Before she can say anything else, she watches her daughter's face soften just the tiniest part, as her eyes betray something else that anger.

"But it's not even the same thing! He's not - we're not…"

Katniss' shoulders fall down with a heavy sigh, and she can feel the strengthening ire run out of her like a fire running out of fuel. Her eyes stare off in the distance, like she's gotten used to doing, when she wishes she were somewhere else.

"You're not what? Significant to each other? Each other's most trusted person?"

Katniss knows what words her mother is deliberately avoiding, and she's grateful for it. "It doesn't seem that way, no," she mutters, still avoiding eye contact, but no longer motivated enough to just storm out.

"You know, the truth is not an absolution."

Her gaze flickers sideways, finding her mother's sincere, unusually alight face, and then back. "What do you mean?"

"One person's perspective is not the same as another's, not even if they're as close as you and - "

"Alright," Katniss interrupts, not wanting to hear any actual names. "That's enough mothering for today. Just leave me alone."

She turns to drag her tired feet out the door, pretending not to hear the exasperated sigh behind her. Perhaps she'll have better luck with the snares this evening.

* * *

The next day, activity in Twelve comes to an absolute standstill, as the final battle of the 74th Annual Hunger Games takes place. As if deliberately wanting to spite them - or perhaps to give the population of the hungriest district in Panem some respite - the sun is shining in mild, brightening rays that make the air smell like early summer. The grass, where it managed to transcend the ever-present coal dust, is vibrantly green; the sky above a deep shade of light blue, and everywhere, flowers are protruding from their shells, after the long dwelling of a harsh winter. Overall, it would be a wonderful, lovely day to spend outside, were it not for the complete lack of choice when it comes to activities. With the stakes higher than ever before for District 12, the only part of the nation not to have had a Victor in twenty-five years, and now with the potential of both their tributes returning, the authorities have declared this a day of no work, and ordered out the entire population on the streets. In the town square, there are banderols stating the glory and honour of the Capitol, and the merchant kids are given little red flags to wave around, supposedly for the atmosphere. No decorations or false cheer in the world, however, can overcome the utter tension that only seems to grow in intensity the more people come to gather in the square. Where the stage normally is placed during the reaping - to the left of the Justice Building's front steps - is hung an enormous white canvas made from some special material that produces great quality of picture, when projected with film.

Head down and with brisk steps, Katniss follows the steady stream of people from her area of residence into town, conscious of the fact that she mustn't be late for the viewing, or else her family will be worried sick for no reason. But as if induced with a will of their own, her feet had moved along with uncharacteristic slowness, when time came for her to leave the woods today. She had been sitting in the rocky spot on top of that familiar hill, and for the first time in her life, found herself wishing for a force outside of what she knows and sees herself, for Gale to get out of that arena with his life intact.

_I swear_, she had thought, her mind directed upward and onwards, to somewhere unknown but faraway, beyond the thin flimsy clouds that floated about in the sky. _I swear that if you will please let him come home, I won't want him for my own, but for his family, and for this place that we call home, and just for his own sake_. _I swear I will not want him for my own happiness, but that I will do anything I can to protect him, even if it means never seeing him again. Please just let him live._

And it was true, she had known, as soon as the words had been framed in her mind. Somewhere along the way, over the past few weeks, which has almost been the worst of her life, she has left behind her one lead motive for everything she does: survival, and replaced it with something purer, but a thousand times all the more complex: the survival of another. Where before there was only her little sister, who she would fiercely protect onto death, just like Gale had been forced to do with his younger brother, there is now one other: one whose life burns as clear and bright before her eyes as anything she has ever had to fight for before.

In a way, she had thought, it _would _become easier once he comes home, since she would feel a lot better about watching him struggle, if there were something she could actually do about it. She has hated being forced to watch from the side lines, and worse - hearing that even from all the way back home, she is a liability to him, not a strength. But that is all made better now, placated by some acting talent that she never knew she had, and he is free of her dragging burden, as she's sure Haymitch Abernathy would have put it. And the thing is, that she's going to accept it that way, since she can't change the present, and since the only alternative - that of him not coming home - seems so infinitely much worse.

But all of this has been nothing but useless thinking, if in the end, Gale and Madge doesn't even make it through the final battle. So here she is, walking as determined as she can into the town square just as she afternoon breeze begins to catch, whirling like a touch of coolness across the already large crowd gathered there. At the outskirts of the square, she finds her family, along with Hazelle and the kids, looking tense but relieved to see her walking up to them. Posy, Vick and Rory all bear the unmistakable marks of having been scrubbed clean, wearing clothes that have been ridded of any holes or signs of wear - while her mother and Prim are both in dresses paled in colour but whole. Katniss feels her heart swell a little at the sight of them, all wholesome, only reasonably skinny and overall intact. The sheer relief of it is almost so strong it heals some of the nagging holes in her heart, at least for now. They share strained smiles, clasped hands and consoling touches, and then, as the speakers on each side of the giant screen come to life, they know it's time.

The crowd parts way for them as they make their way up closer, a close-knit group spearing forward through a sea of grim faces that regard them at a respectful distance. But there are smiles, too, offered as support, as a sign that no matter what, Twelve stands united in the face of this day. From the way she hears people talking, it's clear that Gale and Madge have wound their way into all of their hearts, and their certainty steels her, makes her stand taller and raise her chin. Up in the very front, she sees the Mayor and his wife standing together, a little off from everyone else, and she wonders what goes through their minds, if they are confident in their daughter, or sick to their stomachs from worry, perhaps. Or both, much like Katniss feels in this moment. In the very middle of the square, they come to a stop, wordlessly deciding it a good place to watch, without bringing too much attention of themselves.

On screen flashes stats on the four remaining tributes: age, height, weight, background, number of kills in the Games. The frightening fact is, that judging from the numbers, Gale is not very far behind Cato in sheer brutality. With his three kills, he is only two taken lives behinds the boy from Two, even if the nature of the deaths are drastically different. Quite surprisingly, the male tribute from Eleven – Tresh – has not a single kill on his scoreboard. Even Made has the number one in blood red script next to her killing stats. Neither has he been wounded more than once by another tribute, tells the numbers next, while for Gale and Madge that stat shoots up to the stars. All in all, the commentators are very disappointed in the tall, bulky eighteen-year-old, and say that they're hoping the Gamemakers have a special surprise in store for him.

They do, it seems. For the first couple of hours, while the two red dots indicating Gale and Madge move closer to the battle scene, they get to watch Tresh and Cato play cat and mouse with a deadly outcome, while strange creatures keep appearing in their way and the forces of nature seem to play wicked tricks on them. It all begins as the waist-high grassland, where Tresh has been hiding out for the whole duration of the Games, is suddenly invaded by swarms of small, flesh-eating grasshoppers, which tear his clothes and skin as they chase him to the edge of the forest and beyond. In the end, he is a bleeding, screaming mess, eyes wide and completely crazed, and not a problem at all for Cato to find. Most likely, the Gamemakers had wanted to even out the odds a bit before their final duel, which seems to have been planned and anticipated for a long time, since Cato is in rather bad shape after a week without supplies, and after their run-in two days before.

The two young men fight viciously until they're both bleeding, limping, half out of their mind with head trauma, with swords, knives, stones and tree branches – anything they can find – but in the end, the superior skill of the Career outdoes the sheer strength of the other boy. Tresh staggers to the ground, his hands clutching a sharp wooden stick protruding from his chest, blood spilling down his arms and the front of his torn jacket, with life draining from his eyes. But Cato does not stop there: as if something has snapped in him, he jumps the dying boy, pummelling him over and over again with the rest of the thick branch in his hands and kicking the stick further into his chest, until the bloody end of it protrudes through his back; long after death, until his face is a swollen mess of flesh and his arms and legs stick out at weird angles.

The population of Twelve watches in disgusted silence, and all that's audible over the terrible noises of human destruction is the crying of children who no one bothers to console. At a very early stage, Prim had taken Posy's little hand, lead her behind the backs of their mothers, and promptly sat down on the dirty ground, facing the other way as she sang soft songs to the little girl, anything to distract them from what was happening. Brutal death is not for the eyes of the young ones, no matter what the Capitol would have them believe.

Momentary respite, as the sun slants lower in the sky, squinting the eyes of the thousands of onlookers, who get to see their tributes walk slowly towards their destiny, hand in hand through the woodlands, with the Cornucopia drawing closer. They don't seem scared, almost like they're both immensely relieved over the prospect of the Games ending, no matter what the outcome.

"Are you scared of dying?" they hear Madge quietly ask her partner, breaking the heavy silence that has loomed over them all day.

Gale, who's busy scanning the forest ahead of them with a predator's intensity, doesn't look down at her, but answers, "Not scared, no. But I can't die today."

She crinkles her eyebrows, looks up at him, which serves to almost make her stumble over a root. "What do you mean?"

He rights her, in a quick reflex, looking only a little annoyed. "I promised I wouldn't. I promised I would come home."

For a split second, Madge looks a little alarmed, and then just thoughtful. "Do you think we'll _both_ survive?"

He spares a glance at her then, looking almost surprised. "Of course I do. We'll go home, Madge, don't you worry."

She sighs, not looking too ensured, but walks beside him on limping legs, since in this situation, she's better off trusting his instincts than her own.

The closer the two tributes get to the Cornucopia, where by some silent agreement the last battle is going to take place - the faster Katniss can feel her heart beating. Her eyes are focused on the forest in from of them, searching for the little details in the surrounding that she knows Gale is going by. The trees, mostly willows and birches here, are tall and far apart; not an ideal place for hiding if something should come at them, but at the same time, that guarantees no one can hide _from_ _them_ either. Besides the greenery, the forest is eerily lifeless: they're too far away from the stream to hear its energetic gurgle, and there are no sounds of wildlife around them, not even the rustle of small game in the underbrush. Since the temperature has risen to unseasonal heat during the day, she suspects the whole setting is a manipulation from the Gamemakers, to put extra strain on the tributes.

Suddenly, Gale freezes in the middle of a step, holding up a hand to warm Madge from uttering a single noise and effectively stopping her, too. From some distance away comes the faint sound of running feet, of someone rushing through the forest without a care of being silent, and beyond that, something else – an animal sound, and something close to howling…

In a swift motion, he sweeps Madge up with her back to a tree, and positions himself in front of her, bow and arrow at the ready. Doesn't he hear that other sound, thinks Katniss in anguish; the one that is clearly their impending doom, much more so than that cursed boy from Two? Why won't he just run?

She sees Cato come barrelling against them, and it's clear then that Gale hasn't considered the other thing – whatever that might be – a threat, because he is so focused on killing Cato. Not that it's a weird priority for him, seeing as how many times the other boy has tried to have him killed in the last three weeks, but in this very moment, it's the wrong decision. _Run! _she yells at him in her head, and she must have somehow said it out loud too, because she sees Rory turn his head around to stare at her with wide, frightened eyes.

With just one functional arrow left, Gale aims at the District 2 boy carefully, taking deep breaths to fight off the inhibiting panic. But Cato just runs straight past them, and when he realises the boy is not about to rush them with deadly intention, Gale lowers the bow, a confused frown on his face. Then they come into view: huge, wolflike creatures with claws like sabres and teeth like spears, a whole pack of them, racing with all the speed of four legs towards the three tributes.

They run. Gale grabs an iron hold of Madge's hand, forcing her to keep up with his greater speed, as they sprint through the tangle of braches and bushes, vines of greenery and fallen logs, following Cato blindly.

Capitol mutations. Is this really how the Games are going to end? The prospect almost pisses her off even more than just the generic anger of children killing each other, since if that's how it's going to be, then it's not even about _survival_ anymore, but about a controlled, carefully planned out game, in which the Victor is picked on beforehand. She wonders why that fact has never struck her before, and if most other people are as stupid as to go through life thinking the Games are really about odds. She's sure at least the capitolites must overlook it, but what about normal people in the districts? How can they stand by and watch their children, or the children of their neighbours and friends, be selected to meet a certain death, provided the Capitol doesn't take a special liking in them? More than ever before, she feels the hot fire of injustice within her chest – that kind of ire that she imagines makes her eyes burn and her chin jut out in defiance, the kind of fire that makes her absolutely sure she can take down anything and anyone who's standing in her way, if only she figured out the _how_.

But there's still today, and this moment of tortuous suspense, when she watches that overly big screen play out something that happens in a fictional place far, far away, but which effects her with terrible immediacy.

She watches as the wolf-mutts catch up with the fleeing tributes, and the leader of the pack – a large male with a light, almost blond, coat of fur – snaps his teeth at the tendons of Madge's lower calf. She shrieks, almost falls but catches herself between a tree branch and Gale's steady hand in hers. With a quick swipe of his arm, his knife catches the creature's flank, and it gives a snarl, backs away. They run.

She watches as they break out through the trees into the clearing around the Cornucopia, and their panic as they realise that it's too late, that the mutts are already on their heels, and now there's nowhere to hide from them. Further ahead of them, Cato is headed straight for the elevation of the golden horn itself, and Gale's head is flicking from side to side as he runs, desperately searching for a way out, or at least some kind of protection. All he has is a couple of wooden arrows, his last metal one, and a single knife. The last in line of weapons gets displaced shortly thereafter, as a russet wolf-creature launches itself at him, and Madge is screaming at him to _look out_ and he twists around. In a blur of motions, he shoves her behind him, takes the impact of closing teeth on his arm with a cry of intense pain, but in a calculated move thrusts the blood-matted blade deeply into its neck. The rest of the pack stalls, snarling and regarding them with luminous, strangely human eyes, and they're off again.

She watches the struggle for control as the District 12 tributes reach the Cornucopia, and has to fight Cato for the right to climb it. Gale goes up first, using the power of his speed and the spare sheath of a knife to par off the other boy's first assault. Cato laughs, sword in hand, and strikes at him with an expression of triumph. The blow strikes his thigh, but loses a lot of its leverage as Gale dives low, catches the other boy around the legs and knocks him over, rising up to hit a fist to his nose as if he can't even feel the wounds he has sustained. Just then, Madge lets out a blood-curdling scream, and it dawns on the audience that she has not made it to the top of the shelter, but got stuck halfway up, with mutts tearing at her legs.

She sees Gale jump to his feet with an expression of horrible dread, and almost cries out herself as Cato's sword plunges towards him again. But the boy from 12 is quicker. From proximity, he's able to step in close to Cato, avoid the blow apart from a shallow grazing, and shoves forward with all his might until they're at the very edge of the construction.

For a split second, the two young men hold each other's gaze, pale blue on grey, and Cato parts his lips, as if he's about to utter some last, snide remark – but then Gale gives one last, desperate shove of strong arms, while digging his feet into an indent in the surface upon which he's standing, and Cato falls, arms flailing and legs kicking, into the air, and is swallowed up by the mass of fur and teeth before he even hits the ground.

She sees Gale rush over to the spot where Madge is screaming, holding on with her last ounce of strength to a makeshift handle while the creatures try to drag her down, biting her over and over with razor-sharp fangs. With his last wooden arrows, he fights two of them off, and then he hauls her up with strength borne from despair and they scramble together back from the edges of the Cornucopia, fall into a crying, bloodies heap in the middle of it, too chocked to do anything but just breathe hard for a long while.

She knows they can hear, but envies them that they can't see, what goes on beneath their elevated shelter. Clutching Prim tightly to her chest and covering the little girl's ears with clamped hands, she stares at the screen, while all the time feeling her colour drench, and her throat constrict with nausea, until finally, after dark has fallen, the clip is cut short, and the TV commentators announce that all mandatory viewing is to be continued in the morning.

Morning? The prospect of how they are going to hold off Cato's death is daunting, and as terrible as it seems impossible. The mutts were tearing into him already - how much more brutality can a human body take? Suspicious, she stays on the couch all night, suddenly unable to tear her eyes away from the screen, and keeps a watchful eye out for any tricks that the Capitol may have up its sleeve, in between drifting in and out of sleep.

When the deception happens, however, it's done plain and open in front of the whole nation to see - not sneaked in by any means, but neither within reach for anyone to protest.

At first light - that eerie hour in District 12 when most people are already awake but silence still lays as thick as the black dust that permeates every surface available, when the shifts change at the mines and the workers fill the street with only the vague illumination that filters from gas lamps inside houses through the grimy window panes – that's when the horrors finally end. As if were it one long nightmare, the body of the unfortunate tribute has been mangled slowly, his blood shed drop by drop while taking great care not to be spilled quite fast enough for his death to come. Helpless, going steadily mad with pain, the boy has hovered constantly on the line between life and death, at some stage during the dead of night lost even the capability to voice his pain.

She raises her shivering body off the couch, sick to her core but with a building anxiety to see this through to the end, goes to rouse her mother and sister, and together – their breaths huffing in the early morning chill after a clear-skied night - they set out to see the last of this drawn-out finale of the Games. The sky above has just turned that first hint of indigo blue, the horizon a beginning spectacle of pink, orange and red, when they walk into the town square, where people are already beginning to gather in grave silence.

As dawn breaks overhead, and the first hesitant rays of sunlight touch the upmost pylons of the Justice Building, the giant screen comes back alive. Rosy, fresh light turns the world into a place of angles and sharp shadows, illuminating hollowed eyes and protruding cheekbones, hunger in the eyes of children and tiredness beyond their years in those of their parents – while a fresh breeze that smells of flowers and summer blows in, speaking of life and laugher and youth forever preserved. In a similar contrast, the picture that is broadcasted from the Arena is one of triumphant survival, for the price of someone else's death. With the last of the enhanced arrows from home, Gale shoots his mortal enemy – or what is left of him anyway – straight through the heart, and rises up on top of the Cornucopia to the sound of the liberating canon, raising his face to draw in the air of freedom as if it's the first breath of his life. Standing there, on top of what has been his world for several weeks, his fists clenched and arms half raised, blood smeared on every part of his tense body, he truly looks a Victor.

But victory never comes.

Instead, there comes a cacophony of disbelieving gasps and shouts of outrage, as the Capitol goes back their earlier promise, and proclaims that _of course, _the Games can only have one survivor.

The two Seam families – made into a single one by the Capitol's invention – stand in a close-knit group at the centre of the square, backs straight and eyes wide, hands clutching but no sounds escaping their lips. Katniss can't even think straight, knowing in the back of her mind that she should have seen this coming, ought to have known that in this life of servitude, nothing is ever given away for free: and least of all human lives.

_Someone has to die for the other to live_, is a quote from somewhere that comes unbidden into mind as she watches her best friend and his supposed lover frozen in place by the lake, sees both of their eyes flitter down to where their hands are interlocked between them, judging the small distance in between them. _But Madge can't even stand straight, no way is she able to run or fight_, she thinks, before it finally hits her, what she should have known all along.

"But they're never going to fight each other, surely," says her sister in a small, dejected voice that is shaking from strain.

And she knows they wont, sees it in the way they keep their hands together and their eyes locked on each other's.

"No," Gale says, sounding as calm and firm as if this weren't at all a matter of life and death. He barely even seems to be surprised, but then again, he has always dealt with complicated situations with a cool head.

And "_no!_" is what echoes across the entire square a few minutes later, as Katniss is unable to contain her disbelief, as she can only watch as they stand face to face, with mouths closing around those poisonous berries that will mean their instant deaths, if swallowed. Her voice is much less contained than his, laced with a sea of fear and betrayal, and her hands are clenched at her sides, her eyes so wide that the slanting sunlight captures the entire silver of her irises, turn them into molten gold, like a mourning for the last pieces of her sanity disappearing along with the boy who she loves with every single fibre of her reluctant being.

Eyes wide but unseeing, the worlds seems to freeze for one long moment, while all sounds, all motions disappear, and leaves only bright, unfathomable light, and the enlarged, detailed picture of two white-faced young people, caught in a fierce, rash action that seems to them the only way out, even though it's also the way into total darkness.

"_Stop!"_ comes a voice then, from seemingly nowhere but reverberating through the silence with ear-splitting volume.

All at once, the scene both on television and around her seems to simultaneously unfreeze and get caught in suspense all over again. Looks of misery turn into looks of wild, spiralling hope, heads snap up and breathing has never seemed so far off.

"_Ladies and gentlemen, let me present to you the Victors of the 74__th__ Annual Hunger Games: Gale Hawthorne and Madge Undersee."_

There is another prolonged moment of wonder, and then everything explodes into motion. All around her, people fall into each other's arms, jump up and down while shouting wildly in celebration, cheer like the morning has finally broken and the terrors of the night will never return. The Capitol audience get their dramatic happy ending as the two Victors hold each other in a passionate embrace, even though they're in such bad shape that their legs give out under them, and they fall to the ground without a single ounce of vitality left.

Katniss can see them, can hear their joy and sense it resound through her mind and body like some alien invasion of jubilation, but she can't _feel it_, can't share it - can't do anything but blink once, slowly and painstakingly, and then finally remember how to draw a long breath. When she does, the air whooshes in shakily, gasping like she is choking on oxygen, and her vision spins, does a double take and –

She exhales, and it feels as if the whole universe is expelled from her lungs in only single burst, like the weight of the world is lifted from her shoulders but at the same time, her soul is seeping away through her nostrils, and completely, forlornly drained, she falls down on her knees to the ground, covers her hands over the tears that are falling mercilessly from her eyes.

_It's over. _But in reality, it will never be over, ever_, for life. _


	15. This afterlife of mine

**A/N: **Guys, beloved **dearest** readers: I am so sorry! I assure you, I am not disappeared from the surface of the earth, nor have I given up on writing this story (because it is nowhere near finished!) but my personal life got brutally in the way. As it turns out, moving to a different country takes up a lot of effort and free time, so I have had very few chances to write... And unfortunately, updates are probably going to be a lot further apart than they have been before, but I will try to post a chapter a week, I will really **try**!

Thank you so much for the response to the ending of the Games :) As usual your feedback is deeply appreciated and your comments invaluable! Now I know this chapter is a bit on the short side compared to the last few, and well, it's a bit of a teaser... But think of it as a kind of prologue for Part II.

Ready? Here goes...

* * *

**Part II**

Gale Hawthorne is eighteen years old, but sometimes, he feels he's already lived a million years. Standing by the window in the dining salon of the tribute train, watching its swishing ascent onto higher, familiar ground, he thinks that at the very least, he has seen enough hardship for an entire lifetime. Surely, this must be what old people feel like on the fall of their lives, looking back on a long string of endless memories, and thinking _enough already._ At the same time, he knows that the restless energy he feels coursing through his veins, filling him with anger over the situation that brought him here, is a sure sign of his youth. On the other side of the frail glass pane, the world is green and grey; evergreen trees and rocky landscapes, and he knows he should feel elated, happy even, to see the forest of his home once again, but instead, he feels only empty. And more than that – nerves have formed a tight little bundle in the very centre of his stomach, knotted him up until he has gotten no sleep all night on the train, until he can feel tension rolling off him in waves, like a dark force of energy.

He may be young still, but all of a sudden, the future is a white sheet of unknown spaces of time, with nothing to fill up most of it. It scares him to death, he will admit once he allows himself to think about it - and he has, because what else has he had to keep him company on this train but time? And Madge, of course, but for reasons that he wont even begin to admit, he has avoided her company as far as possible, shied away from her soft smiles and her outstretched hand as if she were a stranger. She kind of is, he has thought more than once since he boarded this train that will take them both, the double Victors of District 12, back to their awaiting friends and family. After all, they don't know anything about each other's lives, outside of the personality that comes with fear for one's life, and constant stress. He doesn't know what she does with her free days, what her relation is to her family, or even what kind of food she prefers. What he does know is that she is ruthless when it comes to life and death situations, that her eyes are green as jewels and reflects nothing more than she wills them to, and he knows what her body feels like closely pressed to his own, but except for such things, she is as much a stranger to him as she was when they first got picked for the Hunger Games. However, he also knows that she doesn't see it that way, and that troubles him more than most other things.

Well, that, and the gnawing uncertainty that hangs over his head like a dark cloud, that is connected with coming home and being terribly unsure of what meets him there. His family – how are they? Have they eaten during the more than a month that he's been away? Have they suffered from seeing him on television, baring his darkest sides to the whole nation, and have they shuddered at the sight of him? Will they still greet him like a beloved big brother and son, or has he forfeited that title, by sacrificing his humanity in order to survive? Not knowing kills him bit by bit, nags him into restlessness, makes every minute seem like hours and every hour like days. And then there's _her_, she who he promised to come home, and who thus gave him the incentive to fight harder than he though possible. She who he has missed with every fibre of his being ever since he woke up properly three days ago in the Training Centre, all cleaned up and smoothed out, put together to be whole again – on the inside. When he thinks about her - only every other second or so - his stomach does a flip of anxiety, and guilt flares up in his chest with suffocating strength, because he doesn't know who he is to her now. He knows perfectly well who she is to him, has known it since he first met her, but the worrying part is, he doesn't think that is enough.

His hunter's senses immediately picks up the faint sound of a door opening and closing over the muted rolling of the train on metal tracks, and soft steps on the padded floor comes closer, but his eyes stay fixed on the world outside, since he knows straight away who it is. The subtle smell of flowers and soap precedes her, and then there's a dry, smooth hand in his, encompassing his fingers with her shorter, fairer ones and squeezing them once. Her warm shoulder is against his, and in the blurry reflection through the windowpane, he can see her wide eyes meeting his guarded ones.

"One hour. Then we're home." Her voice is subdued, carrying with it elation dimmed by anxiety, and at hearing the words, his stomach does another somersault. He wonders if she feels it the same way, but in the mirror image they both look equally expressionless.

"One hour," he repeats muttering, and his heart starts to pick up speed solidly – not panicked, but with a steadily increasing force, as if it knows it's nearing an end to all this madness.

End? He closes his eyes to shut out all of the alluring greenery outside, and tries to imagine his life going back to any resemblance of how it once was. He fails – and rightly so, because he knows there's no end to this in sight. For one thing, he will have a new home, in a part of town where he has never so much as set his foot, and secondly, he will never have to work a day in his life ever again. The future of constant slaving, incessant decay, which he had always imagined for himself, is never going to have to come true. He knows he should be delighted, and he is – it's just that he can't picture a life without the hardship of day-to-day survival. To say the least, his self-image is somewhat disturbed. Tomorrow, he will wake up in a new bed, in a new, grand house, with a new life that he doesn't know the first thing about living. He can't even do the one thing that carries any temptation in filling his days with it, because the woods are restricted area until the Capitol people are safely far away from Twelve again. And also, he most definitely can't see Katniss Everdeen, his best friend and only confidant in the whole world, even though he want nothing more than just that. He longs so intensely for her uncomplicated, silent company, that he feels it has become a physical part of him. He has pictured seeing her again in so many different ways over the last couple of days with their endless hours of boredom, but for reasons explained with painstaking detail to him by Haymitch the other day, he absolutely can't.

Five days prior, he had woken up to a room empty of everything but stark whiteness, and wondered instantly if this was the afterlife for those who commit murder of children. Restrained to a narrow bed with sensory depression – that seemed oddly fitting. His brain had been fighting to process an onslaught of memories that he would rather erase from his mind, and he had fought equally hard to make them disappear. He had wanted nothing else than to sleep, but except for that, his body had been restored. Gale hated it: hated how his hands had been robbed of any marking of his past, his skin smoothed out to cover up the extensive damage done to him in the name of amusement over the last couple of weeks, as well as a lifetime of scars. He hated how his ribs protruded from a malnourished body, but how his hair shined like ebony nevertheless, and his skin had the tone of summer.

It took another full two days, but finally, he could rise to this new afterlife of his, and found out two things almost instantly: One, his desperate action of threatening to commit suicide along with his district partner had saved both their lives. Madge was fine too, and her skin glowed just like his when he was reunited with her on a bright capitol stage. And two, that very same action had also cost him his last shred of freedom. One again, his sense of strategy had made him realise the implications the very moment his mentor had said to him in a hushed voice: "That stunt you pulled, young man, that will never be forgiven. And the President never forgets."

So he may be a free man, as far as the good people of Panem sees it, but with just that one action, his fate had been sealed. The Capitol does not take lightly on being thwarted in their own game, and thus, he has no choice but to follow their rules from now on. Whispering slowly and urgently, Haymitch had laid it out for him in black and white: cooperate, do everything you can to cover it up; or suffer losses worse than you can handle. Just like that time before the Games, when Gale had laid out the sketches of his plan to his mentor, they had understood each other perfectly. That time, it had been on their terms; an old debt to settle and a new obligation to fulfil, but now it was all about damage control. Together, they had done what they had sworn to do, and gotten Madge out alive no matter what – despite her own stubborn attempt to work against them. Gale had been surprised to find out how easily his mentor had agreed to his outline of a plan in the first place, considering it seemed pretty far-fetched even to him, but the older man had only grumbled something about _owing her for the first time around_, and that had been that. She was precious now; the Mayor's daughter, and no plan could be too smudged with dirt to save her – especially if it involved nothing worse than _love._

He feels her warm skin against his own now, and he wonders if she _knows_ – if she suspect the dark guilt that eats him from inside with every passing minute. Surely, she can't be as unsuspecting as she seems to be; she's too smart for that. The minute he saw her again, felt her lips – too full against his own – again, he knew he had to tell her, couldn't stand living in this lie any longer. But he's not allowed to, according to Haymitch, since _it would be unwise to ruin such a convincing affection. _Convincing, because it's not a pretence, and since the Capitol only really have eyes for Madge – their golden princess who rose from the ashes to the stars by winning the love of her life – she's the only one of them who actually has to be believable anyway. Alas, here they are, the star-crossed lovers of District 12, allegedly racing straight for their happy ever after.

"So what happens now?" she asks, raising him with a start from the depths of his guilty conscience. The question catches him off guard, since in his mind, he hasn't pictured her actually asking him.

Under other circumstances, with other conditions than the dozens of cameras and microphones no doubt surrounding them, he might have told her the truth. But as it is, the only thing he can think of saying is: "Now we take things one step at a time," and he keeps his hand firmly locked around hers, drawing strength from the fact that whatever happens next, at least he can count on her to stay strong.

* * *

"Now remember what I said, kids. No hot-headed rushing."

The train bumps over the out-dated tracks as it slows down gradually, and the evergreens outside the windows come into focus as they draw closer. Gale has no idea how he can continuously stand still in one place, when his every nerve is screaming for him to run outside, but there he is: straight-backed and collected, regarding his mentor with expressionless eyes.

Madge, still with her hand linked with his, smiles her wry little smile fondly at Haymitch. "Don't worry. I'll keep a steady hold on him," she says with amusement in her voice, holding up their clutched hands on display.

"Humpf," huffs the prematurely grey-haired man, and scowls at Gale in particular. "We'll see how long that lasts." Turning his back on them, he moves to stand in front of the broad double doors of the first cabin, in which the three of them are watching the grimy little platform of their hometown come into view.

As much as Gale has envisioned this moment over the past month and a half to keep his motivation up, he can't believe it has finally arrived. His heart is pounding like a hammer in his chest, and his hands feel sweaty to the touch, his forehead too warm. Only his facial expressions betray no emotions, schooled as they are into blankness. Beside him, Madge stands with her posture equally straight, but with eyes wide and cheeks flushed from excitement, and when he looks down at her and meets the green of her irises, he feels he's glad to have someone here to share this apprehension with. Even if that person happens to believe you're both irreversibly in love with each other, and has no qualms about the future that they are going to have together – while he very much does.

The platform comes into view; then the first few snippets of a massive crowd of people, and the first thing that crosses his mind is the shocking lack of colour. Grey concrete, grey clothes, grey stone – a blaring contrast to the flurry of light and pastels that his eyes have become accustomed to in a short time. Inside the train, the doorframes are blue, the walls are a deep, dark red wood, and Madge's dress is so intensely green, that she seems to glow in comparison to the station. Only he bears any resemblance to the world outside, with his white shirt and black pants, dresses again as he is in the way that his stylist seems to prefer: like a fancy version of his old self. He wonders if they do it to mark the differences of their background, to accentuate the gap between them that they've had to overcome in being selected together to go into the Games.

Then, with a screeching noise of rusting iron and a jolt, the train comes to a stop, and in the sudden silence a thousand milling voices are suddenly drifting in. The view over the open space in front of the train station is obscured by a metal roof running the length of the platform, but Gale is sure that his heart is going to explode any second from overwork anyway. He licks his lips nervously as the doors swing open to the side, and runs his free hand through his hair, messing up his new, longer haircut in a very bad way, while he watches Haymitch descend the two shallow steps in quick procession.

Turning his head to his left, he sees like in a far away dream how Madge cranes her neck up to meet his eyes. They're like green tunnels, deep and calm. "Ready?" he asks her, and his voice comes out steadier than he would have ever dreamed of.

"Whenever you are," she responds, and suddenly her face is split in two by a large, exhilarated grin. He blinks, surprised, but then he feels his own lips twitch, and his eyes light up a little, because who is he kidding? He's been longing for this moment since the very second the train left this place, taking him with it.

A deep breath, a slight shake of the head to clear his mind, and he takes the first step forward. Sunlight hits him like a warm blanket over the face, and the smell of coal and mountain air rushes deep inside his lungs instantly, and then he's down on the platform, and Madge is beside him, looking straight forward as if the people ahead are the only thing that matter in the world. In an instant, the same exhilarated grin is on his own face, and he pulls on her hand to get her closer, swings an arm around her narrow shoulders and raises the other one in greeting.

One step further, and they're in the shadow, and he can just make out the first line of the crowd in the stark sunlight. Another one, and they're once again in the warm, yellow radiation of the sun, while a wall of human sounds rise up to meet them. White light hits his eyes, and he squints with one hand still in the air and the other lazily draped around Madge, keeping her close by. He can hear his name shouted from hundreds of voices simultaneously, but they're all in the wrong pitch, and he can make out the first line of people well enough to know that they're all strangers. The girl by his side smiles and blows kisses, just as if this were the grand plaza of the Capitol, but in front of these people, he just can't pretend for long.

As the cheers begin to subside into scattered shouts of congratulations, he can finally make out even the furthest corners of the wide space in front of them. Of course, this is not the entire District, but they're many enough – too many in his opinion, since all that really matters are a certain few. Some people closest to the edge of the elevated platform where he stands are shouting for him, for her, for a kiss to show off their newfound love, but they are calling out to deaf ears. All he can do is smile and wave, and scan his eyes again and again over the amassed people, until he finds them.

Far back, he finally catches sight of a black-haired little girl, both hands waving in the air for his attention where she is posed on top of strong shoulders. His heart does a flip, and the anxiety in his chest reaches uncontainable proportions, until he just can't stand it _one more minute_, but then he doesn't have to. Arms outstretched and a pained smile on his face, the Mayor comes onto the platform from some secluded place, and the reunion between father and daughter is tearful enough to hold the entire District's attention. Gale's arm slips off her shoulders without her noticing, and he quickly jumps down to a parted gap in first row, starts to make his way with dogged determination through the parting crowd. He feels like it impossible to move fast enough; like his body is going to explode if he doesn't get there _now_, and if he could, he would sprint right up.

Then suddenly, finally, he is greeted with a loud squeal, and the small body of his little sister is in his arms, her soft baby arms around his neck like a vice. Her voice is too shrill in his ears, and he can't breathe, but none of that matters, as long as precious little Posy is still her loud, happy, affectionate self. Her dark curls fall in front of his eyes, but it doesn't matter because he burrows his face into them anyway, just for a moment, while he blinks away a sudden tear that burns his eyelids. A moment later he holds her out on a slight distance, and swings her high in the air, around in a circle just to make her laugh and scream aloud a little extra, to make her eyes sparkle in the sunlight with delight. He finds himself laughing, and it feels so good that he just keeps doing it, all through the process of putting her reluctant feet down on the ground, and while barely having time to straighten up before both his mother and his youngest brother are upon him. At the same time, his right leg almost looses balance as Posy refuses to give up contact, while jumping up and down and trying to catch his attention. It's a tangle of arms and kisses on his cheeks and chatter, but his chest just keeps rumbling with chuckles, as if realising that the moment he stops, they will be replaced by tears.

His mother's strong, callused hands holds his cheeks down, muttering half angry and half elated words to his face, and at the same time there's Vick trying to tell him about something he saw in the meadow yesterday, and he's not sure he knows what's up and what's down. But then his mother turns around to look for someone, and he realises the picture is not quite complete. "Rory?" he croaks out, looking over her shoulder to find him there, arms crossed and a peculiar expression, as if he's both dead scared and expectant at once, but also hesitant.

Studying his little brother's stubborn expression, he realises something crucial. "You're all _alright_," it bursts from his lips, his head turning to each of the members of his family, feeling his face softening in relief.

Rory snorts a dark laugh then. "I think the important point is, _you_ are," he says, and in his voice there's too much guilt for a twelve-year-old to bear.

"But I am," Gale says, and then that's that, for now, because only time can heal that wound - and maybe also a good long hug.

When after a prolonged moment he disentangles himself from his family to look up, his eyes are searching again. His family has first priority, of course, but he has felt another presence like a burning light beside him all through it, and can ignore it no more. Beside them, a little apart from the milling crowd, stands another tight group of three people, with their eyes closely trained on the tearful scene in front of them. His eyes sweep over the first two if them – blond, smiling like angels while they watch him with nothing but kind affection, and he thinks they might as well be a part of his family too, they're so familiar to him.

Then, like the relief of a blind man seeing the sun for the first time in decades, his gaze lands on the third figure; sweeps over the long braid, the dark tint of the sun in the skin of her forehead, around to the curve of her nose, her lips, her strong shoulders – before finally landing on the grey of her eyes. It's like all air is sucked out of his lungs, but also as if all the strain has finally disappeared from his body and left him weightless. He feels his grin falter into a small smile, and his eyes lock into the endless cloudy colour of her eyes, dizzy from relief and at the same time tight-knitted with nerves.

She looks right back at him, and for just one moment, he thinks that possibly, nothing has ever changed, because in them he sees everything he remembers: the deep understanding that always used to make him think they were meant for each other, always. Her lips are pulled up into a tight little smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes, but that's okay, because he knows that's the most she can manage in a public area such as this, and just seeing her there is almost enough anyway. He is just putting down his little sister for the third time, reaching forward to get to her and at least see for himself that she's there, tell her thank you a thousand times over for taking care of his family, hold her very close for at least a few seconds, but – the moment is broken too soon, as the sound of someone talking urgently cuts him short.

"What?" he mutters, preoccupied as he is still with recommitting her grey irises to memory.

"I said," repeats his mother, "that it's so good to have the whole family reunited again, don't you think, Gale?"

He tears his eyes away to the side, eyebrows shooting up on his forehead. "Family?"

"Yes! Did you hear that Prim and Katniss are our cousins now, Gale?" Posy fills in, sounding overjoyed with the prospect. "We are all one family now!"

He stares down at the smiling little girl for one long moment, and then cuts over to Katniss again, where she stands slightly to the side of the rest of them, arms crossed over her chest protectively. The unspoken question gets an immediate answer by what he sees in her stoic expression, and it makes his heart pick up speed and his mouth go dry with renewed fear. Stupidly, he hadn't even considered the possibility that the arms of the Capitol could reach all the way to his home when he wasn't here, had thought them all safe from everything except hunger – but of course that had not been the case. He feels some of the old anger that is only getting worse by the day come back, is filled with the familiar sense of injustice, and tries unsuccessfully to force it down.

"Cousins?" he wonders out loud, but is immediately met by several pair of warning eyes, and a harsh pull of his ear by his mother. " – Of course. _Cousins_," he relents meekly, and takes notice of the fact that whatever happiness he might have felt just moments ago is now all gone. He takes one more step closer to her anyway, since how could it hurt to hold her close just one short time, when he has just arrived back from hell and all? Her presence calls to him like a moth drawn to a flame, and a stray lock of her hair has fallen across her forehead, just waiting to be plucked back behind her ear. In a split second, he's right in front of her, and she cranes her neck up to look him in the eyes even if she keeps her arms securely around herself. There's something tense about her shoulders, something different about the outline of her face that he didn't recognise straight away, but he can't quite figure out what. He studies her eyes softening, and can see her pulse beating at the base of her neck at his closeness, while his hand extends towards her to draw her in and her arms begin to unfold, but then her eyes flicker to the side, over his shoulder, and suddenly they're hard, opaque as flint, and she backs away one step.

"Smile for the camera," she tells him – the first thing he has heard her say in more than a month and her only greeting to him, before her braid whips gently across his forearm as she spins around on her heel.

Left without a choice, he turns around to see what it was that she had reacted to, only to find a double team of cameras heading his way through the crowd. The band is rolling, and the lens is aimed straight for the little group around him and their smiling faces, clearly expecting to see a beaming smile on his face too. _Acting, it's all about acting_, he thinks, and scoops an arm around Katniss' precious little Primrose, avoiding his mother's all-seeing gaze for fear of what he will see there. When he cranes his neck around to see where his best friend went, she's nowhere to be found, and it's only then that he realises it: what had been different about her appearance. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, he thinks about how her eyes always held a steely confidence for her own abilities, and about how she was always skinny, but how her skin seemed to glow no matter what, and she never allowed herself to be tired as long as there was things to be done.

The difference had been, that in her eyes, he could see a new trace of defeat, and in the greyish white tone of her cheeks, the deep lines under her eyes, and the way her shirt had seemed to hang limp off her shoulders, there had been sure signs of weariness and starvation that he had never seen before. He has seen people on the brink of starvation innumerable times, but surely that could not be it? Not her. _Katniss_, he thinks, his lips forming the name soundlessly, and suddenly, the ache inside him is worse than ever before. If he had thought his own transformation drastic, he sees now that as if they were joined by some mystic force, so has the change been for her. She promised him that his family would be alright - and they are, but he never made her swear any such promises for her own part, and now he really wishes that he had. The sun streams down over the train station, and a smile is firmly plastered on his face, but for every passing second, the feeling increases that he has stumbled into a bad dream - one of the kind with a long, dark labyrinth with no way out, because when it comes to revenge, for the Capitol, there is no such thing as _enough_.


	16. Far from home

**A/N:** Chapter update, as promised! This is probably not exactly what you expected, and doesn't exactly follow canon at all, but it was a vision that I had, and then I just had to write it. I feel as if things have to be a bit awkward for Gale and Katniss at first, while they still don't quite know where they stand…

For those of you who wish for more frequent updates, that's going to be hard this semester, but I promise you I won't lose track of this story I mean, not now that I have more story followers than I could ever dream of! Thank you, all of you!

* * *

Depression. Gale had always despised that word, looked down on it as something weak and contemptible, a concept made up by the rich and lazy, who have too much free time and enough money to allow for the boredom of empty days. He had never actually believed it anything more than a construction of excuses for doing nothing, but now he knows better. He supposes it makes sense, since these days, he's one of them – one of the rich with nothing meaningful to fill his days.

Mostly, he sleeps; sleeps from the second he stumbles home through the wide oak door in the evenings until late in the morning, when his mother always decidedly bangs on his door until he rises out of it – only to return the minute he's done forcing food down his throat. He eats because he knows it's the right thing to do, and because his mother keeps badgering him about it, but the food is tasteless and grows in his mouth, no matter how fancy the meat they can afford from the butcher's these days. Even when he's up and moving, tiredness follows him around like a heavy blanket over his mind, slows his body and his mind until everything seems to happen in slow motion. Sometimes, his mind strays to far away places in a very uncharacteristic way for him, and he feels he's slowly losing control over his life, like awareness is slipping between his fingers step by step. Soon, he'll be nothing like the sharp-eyed hunter he once was, and he doesn't even have the energy to care. Mostly, staring up into the ceiling and letting his mind wander to angst-filled places is enough of an activity to exhaust him, and then there are the dreams at night, where his mind drags back every horrendous, blood-splattered picture it can recall for him to relive. Throughout the dark hours, he starts awake time after time, heart galloping and sweat damping his bed sheets, looking around him with wild eyes for danger that is never there. He feels like a small child as he stares out through the window, waiting for the sun to finally rise, when he can finally sleep peacefully, with the picture in his mind of walking through town, climbing under the fence and disappearing into the woods, following the faint trail to the rock on a hidden hill, where he knows she'll be waiting for him, while a new day breaks.

It forms a strange new kind of routine, this organised chaos that his life has become - at least for the first few weeks, while he awaits the day that the cameras will finally leave Twelve and him alone. In the evenings, there are endless dinners and parties in his honour to attend, for which he has to reluctantly get out of bed late by late afternoon, get dressed in the various fancy outfits that have been given him along with the new grand house, and go over to Madge's house to pick her up. Each night, she wears a different dress, every one more splendid than the last, and she always smiles and kisses him on the lips when she opens the door to her new home that she has all to herself, but for every day that passes, she looks a little bit more tired. They pass the evenings hand in hand or arm in arm, close together even when they don't necessarily have to be, drawing strength from each other's company in this madness of excessive food and drink.

Or at least, Gale feels that he needs her there, more than the other way around, to let her lead in the manners expected by them, and to calm him down with a warning hand when the numerous dishes are carried out to garbage cans after the guests are done with them. Sometimes, he manages to get his family invited along with them, but if he could, he would crowd the grand hall in the Justice Building with every single starving kid from the Seam, and have them eat until food pours out of their ears for once in their miserable lives. For him, who have always taken feeding and taking care of his family most seriously, the inability to do anything is crushing.

Eat, sleep, smile for the camera. Repeat. _Depression._

* * *

And so the days begin to trickle by. When every so often he can't stand the cold isolation in Victor's Village, he takes to going on long walks through the District. Starting out from the relative grandeur of his new home, the walk to the furthest parts of the Seam is like a gradual descent into another dimension, a grand tour of the hierarchy of the population here. In a sudden burst of fame, he has gone from close to the very lowest bottom, on to the absolute top, and he suspects it's a journey that he will never get used to, as long as he lives.

On this particular day, his feet bring him on a path he has not dared to thread since he got back from the Games about a month ago, because it brings a tight, suffocating feeling to his chest and makes his palms clammy with sweat just by thinking about it. But it's a sunny, breezy day, and in the noon quiet, the streets are almost empty.

He starts out on the secluded walkway that leads from the Village into town, which is a pleasant enough part, with its alley framed by evergreens and its many orderly pots of flowers along the way. Where it ends, begins the High Merchant Quarter, with narrow three-story townhouses for the richest of the tradesmen and their families, where the facades are still painted in pale blues, greens and pinks, even if the colours have faded to dull, greyish hues in the years since they were built. Between the houses runs electrical cords, badly camouflaged with decorative flags and signs bearing the different trade symbols. Gale has always thought this part of town eerily quiet, as if no one inhabits the grand buildings - not as bad as the Village, sure, but still, life here must be very controlled, despite the freedom of the finest merchants.

The stone paving under his feet lasts all the way to the town square, runs along straight but narrowing streets, losing width the less important the businesses that are fronted in the houses, which shrink in size and turn into grey or red brick. He passes the bakery, the cobbler and the fresh produce store, and then the road opens up into the wide, rectangular space that is the town square, framed on one side by the Justice Building, shops on another, and on the two other sides by resident blocks for the less poor of the district. The entire area is paved, too: wide, grey flagstone inlaid with white cobbles to form a picture of the Seal of Panem in giant proportions, and big enough to fit the entire population of Twelve, the several thousand of them that there are. In reality, that's a tiny number, when compared to the greater districts along the coast or in the fertile lowlands below, but until a few short months ago, this was all he had known. Now, he had seen the vastness of the country and the splendour of the Capitol, but still, it all looked the same to him. Trade one cage for another, none of its qualities mattered unless people are free.

While crossing the wide open space, he sticks to the side lines, walks along the fronts of the shops: sweets, fabrics, butcher's and school supplies, as if afraid that if he sets foot again in the midst of that damned square, he'll somehow be drawn into more gruesome horrors. Truth to be told, he hates the place, hates the unpleasant memories that it reminds him of and hates the large, hulking memento of the Capitol's brutality that is the Peacekeeper's headquarter.

Then the ground underneath his soles turn to fine gravel roads, winding through rows of small one-family blockhouses that are seemingly huddled together, their rows of grey stone and slate roofs forming an uninspiring setting. The streets are still straight, orderly and planned, but that all stops as soon as he reaches the last of the stairs inlaid into the street, and steps onto rough packed dirt. In front of him spreads out a cheerily green, flower-spotted meadow, and on the other side of it, he can see the fence looming like a constant warning of his mortality. To his right, the winding path continues for a mile or so along a gentle upward slope, until it reaches first the east, and then the west entry of the mines.

And to his left, are a myriad of low, haphazardly spread out houses, shacks and huts of various shapes, sizes and states of deterioration spread out as far as his eye can see. Everything is grey, its former colours dusted black by soot or just colourless from the beginning – the wood or metal of the walls, the tin, leaky roofs, the walkways between the houses, which often turn into messy rivets of mud as the rain comes pouring down in the spring. Even the grass that springs up here and there in the most unexpected of places is a brownish grey now, at the height of summer. Gale sighs, in a reaction that is disheartened as always at the sight of his former home, but which is also part wistful. After all, this is where he was born and grew up, never having had any hope to one day escape, except in his wildest dreams, when he imagined running off to the forest and leaving everything behind. But as he realises these day, he never could have, because how would that have been fair on his brothers and his little sister, who would have been left behind in this desolate place without even the promise of food in their bellies tomorrow. Katniss had been right that time, he knows, when he had indirectly asked her to run away with him, but she had only snorted derisively, and shot the idea down all at once. But what's the point in being young only once, if you are not allowed to dream?

His youth had ended the moment he had volunteered for the Hunger Games, and sometimes, he misses it terribly. He misses the feeling of being convinced of his own ability to conquer anything and anyone in his way, and he misses the way everything used to be black and white in his mind, and a single burst of anger would always make him feel better. These days, the anger is still there, worse than ever before actually, but it's matted down to despair by new responsibilities and by… fear, he supposes is the word. The certainty that his every move is somehow being watched, that anything he does can come back to haunt him and hurt his family - it's incapacitating, and frankly, frightening.

Therefore, he has not been back to see his childhood home even once since coming back to the district, because he fears the onslaught of memories that it would bring, and he fears that if he saw it, he would actually _miss_ living here, for all the hardships that life in the Seam entailed. And he can't – he won't, because it's better like this in so many ways. His family will never want for anything ever again, never again have to be hungry or wear old rags, or freeze through the winters without heating, and for his own part, he'll never have to sign up his name for work in the mines, something that he has always known with dark, deep dread that he would eventually succumb to. Just that one fact should make all that he's been through almost worth it, so then – why does he wish for things to go back to the way they were? Why is he so damn miserable that he feels he would give anything to rewind time and let the name drawn out of that bowl be anyone but that of his little brother?

Gale turns around a bend in the dingy walkway that is barely even a road, and there he is: in front of him a rickety, low fence that has come partly off its hinges and flaps desolately in the wind. Absentminded, he reaches out to straighten the metal clasp that should hold it in place with a flick of his hand: he built it himself years ago, and it seems his knowledge of construction was somewhat limited. Beyond the gate is a short path that leads onto the two steps of the wooden front porch – a tiny thing, narrow to the point where only a single person fits in with carved railings. The one-story, two bedroom house is quite a works for this part of the district, with its shutters and window panes intact, and a sort of olden-day, worn charm to it: character, as his mother would say, nodding contentedly to herself. Gale may not know anything about buildings, but what he does know is that this place held a certain, familiar warmth to it, no matter how miserable the times - and that's exactly what his new, fancy house is lacking.

He stands there for quite some time, regarding the old wooden walls that he knows from mending and patching the plank countless times, wondering what it looks like from inside now, that all personal trinkets are moved out and left is only an empty shell, and sunken old furniture that wouldn't do among their new finery. He decides not to go inside, prefers to remember it like it used to be, with the door half open to let in the breeze, and Posy's small linen dresses hung out on the long-dead electrical wire to dry.

Heaving another great sigh, he turns to continue down the path, in a direction that he is too preoccupied to make a conscious choice of, just letting his feet pick whatever way they feel like heading. Coincidentally, they pick the path they're most familiar with, the one that runs along the meadow - and that's how it happens, no preamble or anything, just by chance on a random Thursday afternoon.

His hands stuffed into the pockets of his pants and head down, he is far away in thought, and does not notice the person coming towards him from the other direction. That is, not until he hears the soft crunch of boots closing in, and registers the flickering of movement in the periphery of his vision, and even then, he doesn't even really react at first. A few steps later, he picks up on the fact that the person in front of him has stopped, and is in fact standing in his way on the path, effectively blocking it. Just like any time he is wandering about these parts of town, his hope flares up for a second, and curiosity makes his head snap up and – it's her. An inexplicable wave of both wild exhilaration and shame washes over him, disabling his sense of clear thought. It seems so strange, that after imagining this moment for weeks on end, it's suddenly here, and despite his carefully planned speeches, he's completely unprepared.

* * *

Katniss, however, has seen him coming from quite a distance away, as his silhouette is unmistakable these days, if not exactly how she remembers it. She has seen him walking around in the outskirts of the Seam several times before over the last month, but had never dreamed to find him actually _here_, only a turn of the walkway shy of her house. If she had been hoping to avoid him, there's not a chance this time, so instead, she had halted her steps a little distance from him, wondering idly when he was going to notice her presence. Before, she thinks a little ruefully, he would have seen her well before she noticed him, because that had always somehow been the case, but now, he looks as distant as if a hoard of wild dogs could run across his feet, and he wouldn't even notice. Although, she guesses he doesn't really need to be attentive like a hawk at all times anymore. He has certainly not been out in the woods to hunt since he came home, that's for sure.

A few steps away from her, he finally stops, and gives a little start, snapping his head up to blink at her, and she can see his eyes widen when he registers that it's her standing there, in a fashion that would be almost comical, were it not for the odd light in them, and the vulnerable expression in his face that doesn't melt away quite fast enough.

There's a long, tense moment during which they just stand there, three steps of space separating their bodies but oceans of distance between their minds. Katniss shifts her weight nervously from one foot to the other, cursing the way her throat seems to have gone instantly dry, her palm clammy and her gaze flittering from nerves. Her heart is beating a million miles an hour, and he hasn't even spoken to her yet.

"Hello, Katniss," says Gale just then, his voice quiet and oddly formal, face blank as he looks down at her with eyes still slightly wide.

She has to clear her voice twice before answering, and hates herself for it. "Hi," is all she can think of saying, and then they lapse back into silence, thick enough to need a wood cleaver for cutting.

Her eyes flitter about, landing on a safe spot just below his chin, where just a little bit of skin is visible before doing a quick once-over of his whole appearance, and suddenly, she feels extremely self-conscious. Squirming in place, she wishes she had just taken a wrong turn and cut across her neighbour's yard, as soon as she'd spotted him, because what good will come out of this? From just standing in the same spot, it's painfully obvious how far apart their lives have become, even judging only by look.

He looks different, in so many ways – rich, she supposes – in his beige cotton pants and thin, white, high quality shirt, rolled up to his elbows in a casual manner. Even his shoes are new: a light colour, too, summer shoes that are made for walking, or running. His hair is its usual dark brown, almost black colour, but uncut, hanging into his eyes in a manner that makes him look rather young, but accentuates the wrinkle that seems permanent in between his eyebrows.

Distraught, her eyes glance down to her own haphazard attire, the same combination as always of hunting boots worn to blankness, sturdy leggings that have been mended a dozen times and so old they're on the verge of disintegration, visibly moth-eaten outdoors shirt. Add to that her practical ever-present braid, game bag at her feet, and her hands and face less than clean from the exertion of hunting, and she hasn't change one bit. Clearly, she's no _Madge Undersee_, with her pretty dresses and well-combed locks of gold.

She feels herself blush furiously, and thinks that for the first time ever, she is embarrassed - ashamed even - in front of her best friend, who once shared her every day. But then again, he's not her best friend anymore, maybe not even her friend at all. Teeth clenching, she keeps her eyes trained solidly on the ground by her feet, and tries to come up with some excuse, any excuse, to end this moment.

But Gale clears his throat, and appears not to share her unwillingness. "Off to the Hob?" he asks, eyeing her evidently bulging bag.

Frowning with slight annoyance, she nods, and feels like this is the strangest moment of her life, when suddenly, she and Gale are on opposite sides of that invisible wall that divides the poor and needing from the rich, when before, it was always them against the world. In the natural state of things, she would load her bag up on her shoulder, flick her head back and walk side by side with him there, in compatible silence.

As it is, he asks: "Can I walk with you?", and sounds damn unsure about it.

"You're going there too?" she starts, now frowning suspiciously, because she can't imagine that the Capitol would consider the seedy black market a suitable place for their newest Victor. "Why?"

When she glances up at him, to gauge his answer, she finds him actually blushing. "Ehm," he flounders, raking a hand through his hair and messing it up further. "I thought I'd make some purchases, actually."

She can see that he's dying with shame just saying those words, even though his face remains stoically blank, and her eyes fall to the small purse bulging in the front pocket of his trousers. A shadow of amusement cross her eyes, before she cringes again, at the realisation that this is exactly what makes them worlds apart now: the fact that she goes to the Hob for survival, while he does it to pass his time. And now what is she supposed to do with this information? It seems to make him at least as uncomfortable as she is, but they're headed the same way nevertheless, so what choice is there, but to accept?

"Sure," she says in what she hopes to be a breezy voice, picking up her bag and slinging it over her back.

The walk is nothing if not tense. It's the setting, she thinks: the reason they're both acting as if they're strangers is because their friendship was always mostly confined to the width of the forest - and beyond that of course, there's the issue of his strange appearance. It's extremely unsettling, the whole thing, from the slump of his usually squared shoulders, to the odd opaque grey of his eyes, as if everything on the inside has fled far away from them. Against her will, her heart clenches painfully, and she has to remind herself that, no, it will do her no good to feel longing. Anger is still there, a churning, unrelenting feeling of betrayal deep in her bones, but still, the need to reach out across the space in between them is imploring, so strong she has to fight it with all her willpower, has to fight to stop her hand from twitching closer to his. If she could only touch his skin, even just for a moment, then maybe the terrible feeling that this is all just a nightmare would go away.

She wonders if she should be saying something, but finds her lips sealed shut every time she tries to voice any kind of safe topic. She could ask him _how's Hazelle and the kids? _or possibly _How's Madge?_ or even _how are you?_ But they all seem like feeble questions, and she was never one for forced small talk. So instead, she keeps her tongue and her hand under strict control, and continues under the blue summer sky on her way, tensely aware of his burning presence by her side, of how when she moves slightly to the side, so does he, and when her head turns his way, his turns to meet her. Hyperawareness makes her tense, makes her long for the days when his company by her side was the most natural thing in the world.

In turn, Gale can't remember the last time he felt as alive as he does now, with her proximity making his heart beat a million miles an hour, and with her hand so close that if he only reached out a single finger he could… But then his eyes dare to flicker upwards and sideways, and a shower of cold tingles washes over him as he realises her most hostile scowl is still in place – the one that clearly means for anyone and everyone to keep their distance, lest they evoke her wrath. His new, soft pants have deep pockets, and he shoves his unnaturally smooth hands down as far as they can go, but still can't even try to control his flickering gaze from being drawn to her: to every little detail, from the way her braid bounces against the front of her ancient jacket with each step she takes, to the looseness of her normally very fitted tights, to the light grace with which she moves. He could paint her picture straight from memory and recognise her steps from a mile away, but still he has never felt more a stranger to her in all the time they've known each other.

The two of them round one last corner, by now well past the meadow and on the other side from their childhood homes. With one hand on the rust-flecked metal handle on the entrance to the Hob, Gale pauses for a moment, drawing in a long breath, and Katniss has time to wonder if perhaps he is thinking the same thing that she is, that he doesn't really belong here anymore. But the door opens under his touch, and the usual waft of damp canvas, rusting metal and sour sweat hits them straight on, as she follows him into the dimly lit market place. Just inside, he stops for a moment, to let his eyes adjust to the lack of sunlight, seeing the swirl of white dots that always follows on bright summer days like this, and perhaps also to get his bearings straight, seeing as it's been months since he was last here.

As he stands there blinking, still confident of Katniss' sure presence beside him, he hears a surprised voice shouting his name through the low buzz of the Hob. In a moment, they start to come up to him one by one; Darius and Cray, Ripper and old Grant, others that he used to trade with on a regular basis, and yet others who he has never spoken a word to in his life. Quite overwhelmed, and more than a little surprised, he stands baffled in place as they all call for his attention, bombard him with a million questions and offer him congratulatory claps on his shoulder. He doesn't know what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn't this; to be welcomed back into the Hob with open arms like a lost companion, whose deeds out in the world are worthy of pride. A nagging realisation in the back of his mind tells him that a large part of it is probably due to the fact that his pockets are swelling with money now, something these people know well, but even so, he doesn't really mind. He was going to spend good large parts on it on these people anyway, as gratitude that their willingness to trade with him kept his family alive for years.

From the background, Katniss watches the scene for a minute, studying how the tradesmen of the marketplace mill around him like planets around the new born star that he is, even if he may not look it. But he lights up from their reception, she can tell, even if a part of him looks too surprised to be pleased. His face changes as they speak to him; from the drawn, sad expression that had lingered on it all the way there, to animation, as if on cue. She supposes this is what he's trained to do now, to entertain crowds of people even if he has no idea why. He's very good at it, too: charismatic where she is as flat as a door in front of strangers, likeable where she is only hostile.

Since she's clearly not included in the tight group of congratulations, she slinks away without a word to the other side of the market hall, takes a seat by Greasy Sea's stall and props one arm on the counter, watching from there.

"Some sight, isn't it?" mutters the older woman, who's leaning on the desk beside her, eyes on the gathering and an amused smile on her lips.

Katniss grunts in agreement. "Business is going to go up now, I'd say."

Chuckling, Sae chides her with sparkles in her eyes: "Don't be bitter, girl. Bitterness only every lead to grief."

_What else is there?_ Katniss wants to ask aloud, but shuts her lips firmly around the words. She's right, at least in that openly displayed bitterness is not going to lead her anywhere. Instead, she goes on to doing what she does best: haggling over trades. Ten minutes and a cup of warm soup later, she's two rabbits poorer and three Silvers richer, as she hops down off the high stool and heads for the exit. Sneaking a glance around the market, she spots Gale's tall figure over by the knick-knack counter, along with an assorted group of followers around him. With something like elation, she realises she won't have to say anything else to him today, and walks with long strides over to the doorway. Her only other stop today is the butcher, and she'll still make good time back to afternoon classes if she leaves now. Since Gale came back a few weeks ago, and his family moved with him to the Victor's Village on the other side of town, life has been quiet, but easier. She brings in catches most days, her small family has enough to eat and some left for necessary supplies; she sleeps deeply in the night time, and she's beginning to regain some of the weight she lost over the duration of the Games. Things are easier, indeed – it's just that the motions of going through them are so much lonelier.

One hand on the gate, she is suddenly halted by a voice calling across the stalls: "Katniss, wait!" Turning her head around, she sees Gale come jogging up to her, a few items tucked under his arm, and curses under her breath. He wasn't meant to see her leave.

"Where did you go? I didn't see you leave," he says, and there's something urgent, and a little bit hurt in his voice, as he regards her with luminous grey eyes.

A mixture of indignant stubbornness and longing rises up in her chest at the sight of it, as she is conflicted between thinking that it's not her duty to tell him where she goes, and a wish to reach out and put her arms around his neck, her head against his chest. "I was trading," she mutters, averting her eyes down to the ground.

"Oh. Of course," he answers, voice low. "And you're off now?"

Since when do they have to ask each other obvious, purely conversational questions? Frowning, she nods.

For a long moment, they just stand there, awkwardly in front of each other in the place that they used to consider their second mutual home, finding nothing to say. Then she hears him exhaling though his nose, something very close to a breathy laugh, and when she raises her eyes to meet his again, there's a softness to them, and a hint of the old easy camaraderie they used to share. She looks back in surprise, and feels her own guard slip a little, until it feels as if the world consists just of the two of them, and they could be anywhere in it right now. So when he blurts out the next words, ones she should be suspicious and surprised to hear: "Can I meet you in the woods next Sunday?" - she only has one answer.

"See you there," she says, and it feels as if a small stone has fallen from her heart, making one corner of her lips twitch up. _Sunday. _A week and a half can't possibly pass fast enough.


	17. Sitting on a ruin

**A/N: **Update time! I don't even know what to say here today, just thanks for reading and supporting me in this story! Oh, and who wants some Gale and Katniss interaction? Because you're finally getting several thousand words of it! Leave me a note at the end if you can :)

* * *

"You're smiling."

His mother's words catch him off guard, and the little upward twist of his lips falters, before curling up again, higher. She sounds surprised, by all rights, and also a little suspicious, as she watches him instead of the flashing TV, seated beside him on their plush new couch in their window-framed new living room.

It's Saturday afternoon, on a breezy, pleasantly warm day in the lazy time of year that is high summer, and for once, Gale is up even though he has nothing special to do. This evening, he does not have to have dinner with anyone but his family - not even Madge, and he does not have to put on a face for any camera, or dance or make speeches or dress up in ridiculous clothes. In other words, things are looking up.

"It's a day worth smiling for," he replies, staring with unseeing eyes toward the TV, which is on for no apparent reason, since none of them actually care what's on. "The cameras are gone, finally. No more Capitol in Twelve."

His mother studies him for a moment, and he only just barely doesn't squirm under her gaze. When he was a little boy, she could always tell by just one look on his face what he had been up to, and for some reason, he does not think that has changed since he grew up.

"Is that the whole reason?" she questions him, obviously well aware that he is trying to hide something from her, the way mothers always seem to just _know_ by some sixth sense.

This time, he does squirm, and his hand shoots up to his hair, rubbing it back and forth while averting his eyes. "No," he mumbles, fully not intending to say anything else on the subject. Actually, the fact that the camera teams have left his District, taking along with them all festivities and silly events that have tortured him in the last month or so, is only a small part of the reason he feels like smiling today. Their departure, however, means freedom, and freedom makes available the real reason to his light-heartedness – namely that tomorrow is Sunday, and he can finally allow himself to escape the walls of the District once again. He can finally justify to himself to see Katniss again, since the danger of doing so should be down to a minimum.

When he dares to look up at his mother, he sees that she's smiling too, a knowing once without a single trace of blame in it, as if she knows exactly where he's planning to go and who he's planning to see, but doesn't mind in the slightest.

"Just be careful with what you say and do, Gale," she prompts him gently, reaching out a hand to pat his, and effectively making his forehead crinkle.

"What do you mean?" he asks, even though he thinks he has a good idea of exactly what she means. He mostly just wants to hear her thoughts out loud, since they always seem so amazingly structured and wise.

"Only that girls will be girls, while boys will be boys," she says cryptically, and he wonders if it was even meant to make sense to him.

Still frowning, he thinks again of the fact that plural _girls_ is really the core of his problem nowadays, and of how trivial it must have sounded to him once, while now it occupies his thoughts most of the time. Then he remembers there's something he's been meaning to ask his mother. "You know in the interviews, when the reporters came here while I was…" he falters, but knows that she knows what he's thinking about, so he goes on: "Well, what Katniss said about – _cousins –_ who came up with that?"

A week ago, he has been lounging on the sofa after breakfast, only to find the screen come alive with reminders of the Games, "Extra material" as they called it, and he had seen his family talk about him for all the nation to see, while he had been holed up in that cave, none the wiser. Katniss' interview had bothered him the most, so much worse than his two brother faking smiles or his little sister obviously being clueless, because hers had been so clearly forced. She had been tight-lipped and scowling, arms clutching herself while she gave answers to all of the interviewers questions, and the answers had been predominantly lies. He had wondered then whom she was trying to protect; herself or him, but came to the conclusion that it was all of them. From the way his siblings have begun talking about Katniss as an older sister, and from short remarks here and there by his mother, he's pieced together just how much effort she had put into taking care of them while he was gone, how much she had sacrificed for them. It makes him feel equal parts deeply thankful and horribly guilty, since he has seen for himself the effect the Games had on her, had seen the lack of lustre in her eyes on that taped interview, and the new thinness to her body that spoke of hard exertion. The last time his mother had been to visit the Everdeens, she had told him that things are getting better now, but he's still worried most of the time, and wishes more than anything to see for himself.

_Tomorrow_. The past week and a half since she promised to meet him has been the longest one in his whole life.

Still with a question to answer, his mother is silent for a while, tapping her fingers against her knee. "She did it to protect you, you know," she says slowly, echoing his thoughts from before.

"You mean it was _her_ idea?" he asks, incredulous, and she nods.

"I think she got the idea from someone else, but yes, she's the one who said it first." Seeing his stony frown, she goes on: "But it's not the worst thing in the world, is it? Do you really care what people think?"

"No," he says right away, but wonders if it is really the truth. What he actually wants is for the whole worlds to see her as _his_, no matter how selfish or wrong it might be. "It doesn't matter, I suppose."

But the reasons are very different than just _what people think here_, because the main point of the lies is to make the Capitol people believe there's only one girl for him, and that she's blond and rich, and everything a man could want. Something in his eyes must have betrayed his thoughts just then, because once again, his mother seems to have read them.

"Like I said, be careful," she says, and rises to make her way into the kitchen. Halfway across the parlour, she stops and looks at him again. "Oh, and say hi from me," she adds with a smile - one that he can't help but return, when he realises they're thinking about the same girl now, and that no matter how complicated the situation, she'll always come first in both their hearts.

* * *

Sleep is cut up into small portions of uneasy rest that night, as he waits impatiently for the darkness to pass and give way to a new day, filled with promise like never before. Strange dreams haunt him, taunts the outskirts of his mind every time he wakes with a start, only to find that the stars are still shining dimly in the sky, unmoving as the forces of the world. In the dreams, he's surrounded by thick forest, savage greenery that has no way out and no shelter; only whispering voices and streaks of mist, telling him to lose himself in the void of the trees, imploring him to _follow, where no days will ever be found again._ Winds could be howling and rains could be sweeping the earth away, but he would never know, if only he _followed the lights_.

He awakes with a start, gasping for an intake of breath to shatter the images of darkness and whispered promises of peace, so eerily disturbing in all their beauty. As quickly as they formed, the last of the images dissolve, when he notices the subtle change of light in his room, the thick darkness that means the stars have dimmed away and the moon has set. Sitting up and looking out of his window, he can make out the first pink stream of the new dawn on the horizon, and again his heart starts beating faster, a smile forming on his lips.

At first light, he's already out the door, closing it behind him softly and walking away on soundless leather-clad feet. He's dressed in his old hunting gear; soft, flexible pants with padded knees and sides, an old shirt with the arms folded up and a leather vest full of pockets, for practical storing of random items. It feels good to wear them again, as opposed to the restricting new style that he wears around town these days – he feels like his old, strong self, as if all his self-esteem is rubbed into the fabric of these garments that he used to wear every day. As the sun begins to rise in the sky, spreading that magical white light of early morning over the world, he makes his way across town, through the meadow and under the fence, without meeting a single person.

By the time he reaches their old meeting spot on top of a hill, the birds are singing joyously all around him, and out here in the forest, the new day is in full swing. He sits down on the rock that they always used to share as a seat, and waits. Waits, while he hears several large animals pass by at a near distance: waits, while his stomach begins to growl but he refuses to eat before he can share his packed breakfast with her: and then waits some more. Anxiety is churning like a tornado in his chest, and the more time that passes, the more desperate he gets. What if she's not coming? What if she's decided that meeting him, even for one time, would be a mistake, and does not want to be his friend anymore? What if while he's been away she's grown attached to someone else, who can fill his place now that he lives a different life? Uncertainty kills him, and he fiddles with everything he can find: twines a length of rope from straws and cleans all of their knives in impatience.

Just when he's convinced she will not show up, when his chest is aching bad enough to make him want to curl up in misery, that's when he hears soft steps approaching, shuffling up the hillside. The unfinished rope falls from his fingers, and his eyes train sharply on the edge of the small clearing – and there she is. The sunlight streams right into her face, making her eyes squint and her hair flare up in shades of brown and red; illuminates her whole appearance unnecessarily, since he thinks he has never seen anything that has made him so happy ever before, either way.

Her eyes lock onto his across the small distance, and they're clear, open to him out here in their special place. "You came," she mumbles, sounding less than matter-of-factly, and in that moment, she's just his Catnip, his best friend and only confidant in the whole world, his most trusted hunting partner and the person who understands him the best – and he revels in the fact that he's all that to her, too.

In a flash, he's up to her, and his arms lock around her waist with all his strength, too emotional to remember to be gentle, but convinced she can take it. Against his chest, she feels just like he remembers her from that day of the Reaping, when he held her for the first time while hoping it wasn't the last; fragilely thin but at the same time fierce and strong - with the hardened body of a hunter but with developing curves of a woman, and with hair smelling like summer and freedom.

Her shorter arms reach up to clutch him around the neck, and in that motion, he can feel something unhinge inside of him, like a lid sliding off its place and uncovering a sea of buried feelings and thoughts, those that he has thus far been too focused on keeping away to deal with. He heaves a shaky breath, trying his best to keep it all on the inside, but knows that it's bound to fail as hot tears begin to form in the corners of his eyes and his shoulders begin to shake uncontrollably.

"Gale," he hears her muffled voice say against his ear, and as she hold him even closer, the tears begin to trickle down his cheeks, disappear into the curls of her hair where he hides his face. He knows he should find this embarrassing, crying like a child in front of the girl he loves, but since she's also his best friend, he doesn't care.

"Catnip," he whispers back into her hair, and to his surprise, he can feel his own shirt begin to wet where her head is leaning against his shoulder. It's a long, long while, when they just stand there clinging to each other and letting the onslaught of emotion run its course, until his shoulder have stilled, and she's relaxed against him expect for her shaky breaths making her back tremble. His hand moves up and down her spine, an his cheek in still leaned against the crown of her head, while the sunlight warms their bodies and the fresh scent of the forest fills his lungs.

Then she twitches with the impact of a ridiculously loud hiccup, and in surprise, he drops one of his arms from around her. Her face leans away from its nest by his neck, and she looks up at him with wide, red-rimmed eyes, her hand coming up to cover her mouth, muffling another hiccup. In the confusion of part elation, part exhaustion from crying, he starts to chuckle at the sight of her.

"Not –" hiccup, "_funny_!" she exclaims, but it only serves to make him bend over double with laughter, feeling lightheaded and with his heart soaring at the sheer closeness of her. In no time, she begins to laugh around her hiccups, too, as his moods seeps into her like a contagious flu. He watches her nose crinkle up as she grins broadly, and listens to the wonderful sound of her breathy laughter, and for once, the world seems completely right.

As soon as he can compose himself, he heads over to the pack he brought out here, and hands her a flask of cold water, which she gratefully accepts to stop her panicked hiccups. Then they sit down on the rock, close enough so that their elbows are touching, and share the first meal of the day, just like they always would before, any time a whole day of hunting together would lie ahead of them. Gale finds himself time after time looking sideways out of the corner of his eyes, as if to make sure she's still there, and not suddenly gone up in a cloud of smoke for no apparent reason, like he constantly fears she will be. They're just drawn there, like no willpower in the world can stop him from having to look at her every five seconds, curious of what her face looks like in every single moment. The sun shines in their faces, reflecting against the whiteness of her teeth when she smiles her toothy smile at him on more than one occasion, the one that makes his insides jump when he sees it. Against the background noises of the forest, the muffled chewy sound she makes as she devours the soft bakery bread that he brought with him is oddly reassuring- and a little funny.

"You know Catnip, fresh bread is not supposed to be crunchy," he teases her, earning a deathly glare and a smack on his upper arm.

"Like you're one to talk, munch master," she throws back at him, and suddenly, it's like to time has passed since they were last in this spot together, talking about dreams of running away and impossible futures. It feels like another lifetime.

He peels an orange and hands her half, thinking when his hand touches his in the process of what her lips would taste like if he were to kiss her here, in the brilliant warmth of the sun and with the sweet taste of citrus from both of them, mixing with the scent beside him that is just her…

"Quit looking at me funny," she quips, waking him from daydreaming only to realise he's been looking straight at her chewing slices of orange. "I'm not _that_ loud when I eat."

"You've got juice on your cheek," he answers, voice still very far away as he reaches out a finger to swipe away the fruit. Then somehow, his hand sort of just lingers there without his permission, and when he moves his eyes an inch, he sees her eyes widen where they are locked into his. For one short moment, he just looks straight into them, seeing the deep storm cloud-colour and their every speck of lighter grey, but then she quickly averts them, and he notices the way her shoulders are suddenly tense and her jaw set.

He withdraws with a sigh, reminding himself that this is Katniss Everdeen in front of him, and knowing her better than anyone else, he is fully aware of her characteristics and limitations. Feelings and vain relations are not her cup of tea, to say the least, nor are unproductive pastimes like _kissing_ or _human closeness_. Glancing back to her, he notices that her sky-high protective wards are up again, and her face blank. But beneath that blankness, there's something else swimming, morphing her expression into sadness rather than impassion. Curiosity is maddening, but he knows he can't ask it straight out of nowhere, and swallows it, promising himself to be braver later.

"So," he says instead, popping a slice of his uneaten fruit in his mouth, "Have my snares caught anything while I've been away?"

He catches a twitch of her eyebrows, and a ghost of a smile on her lips. "You mean _my _snares, surely," she quips, her eyes darting his way and then away again. "After all, I've been the one to reset them for several months now."

She's joking, obviously, but there's also something quite fierce in the way she says it, like she's trying to distance herself from him by stating that she's fully capable of managing on her own – as if he didn't already know that. By the stubborn set of her shoulders, however, he thinks he can make out the reason; that she's unconsciously reminding him of how hard things have been for her, while he was away. Feeding eight people from just hunting alone is quite a task, and he can only guess at how hard she's had to struggle each day with hauling heavy game bags through the woods, searching constantly for more, while the time allotted for hunting was cut short by viewings of the Games. Every time the thought crosses his mind, he feels terrible guilt flare up in his chest, but trying to keep things light, all he responds is: "They're still my constructions, thank you very much," and reaches up a hand to shove her casually on the shoulder.

However, since no touch between them - no matter how innocent - could every be casual, he feels the familiar tingles travel up his arm and shoot straight for the pit on his stomach, where it flares like fire. His breath catches in his throat, and his heart beats harder for a long moment, and every second seems longer than hours and every little movement tensely hyper-aware.

He doesn't dare look over to see if she's reacting in the same way, because he tells himself that of course she doesn't, since she has the self-control of a titan and since they're on different pages when it comes to this issue. Instead, he rises up quickly while clearing his throat, and keeps his eyes strictly to himself. "Let's get started, shall we? Since you were late and all."

"I was not late!" she protests, while agilely rising to her feet in one smooth motion, for which his eyes greedily drink in the familiar shape of her. "I was here right when I needed to be."

Shaking his head to clear out all potential intoxicating thoughts of smooth skin under his fingers, he trains his eyes on the horizon again. "Well in any case, I can't wait to see what you have done with my snares," he says, smiling at her loud, indignant huff.

When they set off down from the vantage point side by side, moving smoothly and soundlessly with all their senses on high alert like the excellent pair of hunters that they are, he feels like the world has finally spun a full circle on its axis, and settled back down in its old tracks. They may have both changed irreversibly, and he may never be able to see her as just his best friend ever again, but in her company, he feels as if the sun is always shining, and like everything is going to be okay.

* * *

Time passes too fast under the constant pressure of the sun, while they follow familiar routes through the forest in comfortable silence, boots quietly trudging on mossy ground and eyes alerted to any movement in the underbrush. If Gale had been worried about losing his edge from not hunting for several weeks, it is instantly clear that such is not the case. His steps are still as velvety as always before, his senses as keen on picking up trails of potential prey, and his endurance as high as ever.

The only new thing is that for the first time, he is not quite able to separate Katniss, his strict hunting partner from Katniss, the girl with whom he's in love. She distracts him with her movements sometimes, and he finds himself staring at her face when she draws back her arm to fire an arrow, rather than watching out for a plan B, in case she misses. When she's close, she makes his brain go soft and dizzy, and when she's out of his sight, it makes him anxious, to the point when he looks for her rather than for prey. It's probably due mostly to her superior concentration that they come away with any game at all, even though he contributes by correcting a few small things that have malfunctioned with the traps under her care. Along the snare line, they take longer than usual, while he fiddles with the various constructions and loses his mind into the complex world of allure and clever formations, that is what he does best of all. When his fingers and his mind are busy inventing, he finds all thoughts of guilt and sadness fade away, leaving him be.

As the sun passes noon and begins to burn lower in the sky, they start back towards the fence again, and the silence stretches out, suddenly heavy and full of things unsaid. For two solid hours, he's deep in thought, walking on autopilot while trying to figure out any way to start a conversation about what he has to say. His mind spins in circles; between what are the right words and how to say them, onto if they're even necessary to be said, to thinking that maybe he should not say anything, for the best – and then back again. Eventually, they arrive back at the small clearing close to their meeting spot where they usually stop to reload for re-entering Twelve and for hiding their weapons, and Gale knows that this is his only chance, unless he wants to wait another whole week until he gets another opportunity.

Her back is turned to him where she's bent over her bag, packing up her neat catches. He walks over to her, and sets down his own bag beside hers – all in all they have scraped together a rather good collection of meat, furs and plants.

"Here, it's all yours," he says, standing over her with arms crossed, preparing for the difficult discussion sure to follow.

Just like he thought, she snaps her head up to frown at him, her jaw setting at a stubborn angle. "We both caught it," she counters, "So half of it is yours."

"But I'm giving it to you, to trade. No one will ever make a fair trade with me again, remember?" It's an attempt to pacify her, by using logic to make her see reason, but of course it doesn't work that way with her.

"So, I'll give you the money afterwards? Why don't I quite believe that?" she says, narrowing her eyes at him.

"Well, you could try, but I wouldn't take them," he relents, shrugging

Katniss rises up to her full length in front of him, mirroring his crossed arms. In her eyes, defiance blazes like lightning, and Gale sighs inwardly in frustration. "So what, I'm a charity case to you now?"

"No, I –" he tries to start, but she intercedes him, her voice drowning out his.

"I know you've been giving some money to my mother, and now this," she says, voice rising gradually but staying dangerously even. "You don't think I can make do for my family on my own all of a sudden?"

"Of course, I know – "

But she's really working up to a temper now, all her pent up anger and frustration with him rising up like a storm inside her, making her hands shake and her skin tingle as if were it on fire. "No you don't Gale!" she cuts him off, pointing an accusing finger at his chest. "I took care of your family for all those weeks, and now you don't think I can even look after two people? Do you think I'm allowed to act weak just because you're home to _save the day_? Do you think I need you?" The question hangs in the air for one long moment, while her eyes blaze into his, before she spits out more lies that she wishes were the truth. "Because I don't."

Coming from her, it's quite a tirade, and in shock, all he can do is just stand there, listen and gape at her outlet of emotions, which is so atypical for this normally self-controlled girl. Then it hits him exactly what she said, and a cold wave of fear goes through him, sharpens his mind again. Taking one step closer to her, he reaches out his hands to grip her shoulders, looking imploringly into her eyes.

"Listen to me. That's not what I'm saying! I just…"

"You just what? Feel guilty for not having any need of me anymore?"

"No! I _care about you, _Catnip, don't you know that?"

"Care?" Her voice _is _shaking now, and her chest feels like it will explode if she doesn't get to explode in anger. Maybe if she just got to say something hurtful just once, then she might feel better – so stupidly, she does. "You don't care about me, Gale, you just want to feel better about yourself." It's not true, and it's not even nearly a good thing to say to him, but for one shaky moment, she doesn't care, and the outraged flare of his nostrils when he hears it is almost enough to make her feel better, if only she didn't also feel like a thousand shards of glass were exploding in her chest.

"That's not true," he says, feeling his own temper rising to the skies with every passing second, anger pulsing in his veins at her words. "Why would you say that?"

"Because you made it pretty obvious during the Games!"

"_The Games,_" he spits out, raising his hands in frustration. "Do you honestly believe that anything that happened during the Games were for real? It was all lies, of course!"

She visibly wavers, and her eyes widen, before clouding over with a deep frown again. Also, she looks like she's using all her courage to stay close to him, rather than run away. "But you told everyone in that stupid cave that you were going to put her life before your own! You were going to save Madge, and sacrifice yourself, weren't you?"

The worst thing is, she doesn't really sound angry anymore - more like deflated, accusing. Acting on an impulse, he reaches out to grip her shoulders again, trying to make her see sense. "Of course not! I promised you I would come back alive, didn't I?"

"Yeah, and look how much that was worth!" she exclaims, anger bubbling up to the surface again as she gestures feebly with her hands.

In turn, his voice drops to a steady tone, one that she will just have to listen to. "But I succeeded, didn't I? I came home alive, and that was the only way of doing so that I could think of… or at least, live with."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, that I couldn't life with myself, if I had played the Game by their rules, by killing innocent children. How could I?"

They keep standing like that, her hands hanging limply by her sides but him keeping her put in place, eyes locked together. "What does that have to do with you and her?" It's almost a whisper, and seeing a very real chance, he goes for the long explanation.

"I knew that I needed sponsors, but I also knew that no one would want to sponsor me, unless I came up with something really dramatic, something the Capitol would love. I couldn't be a killer, so I decided to give them something they had never seen before. And then Madge… I couldn't just let her die… Don't you see that?"

Her stony silence is evidence of just how stubborn she is, but in her eyes, he can see anger battling with understanding, and he takes this as a hopeful sign.

"But it was all a show, Katniss. Please believe me when I say that?"

It's a long moment before she answers, "What part of it was for show, do you mean?"

Baffled, he takes a step closer to her, willing her to see the sincerity in his eyes if only he gets close enough. "All of it," he replies, his voice very soft as a tirade of other words are hanging on the tip of his tongue, so clear in his head but impossible to form into sentences. "She's not… I'm not…" he fumbles, but the big words that he needs to say just won't come out. _There has only ever been you, _he wants to say: _I love you, I think I've always loved you, even if I was too young too understand it when we first met. I want to kiss you until you can't breathe every time I see you, and I want to take that frown off your face and replace it forever with brightness._ But none of this comes out, as they are words he knows he could never bring himself to say. Instead, he placates: "I don't think she's the only girl in the world, no matter what I said."

Katniss stands there - unmoving, feeling the words spin around her mind for the longest time, unable to think of any words that could fit the situation.

"But you said it," it slips out of her, quietly and very sincerely, like she's trying to make him see all that she can't put into words by a few small ones. And to this he has no answer, only apologises that he knows she doesn't want to hear. As suddenly as the exposure in her has come, it is gone, because in the next split second, she is completely red with rage again. "And what the fuck was that in the Justice Building all about?" she shouts, so upset that the words come out shaking with feeling.

Gale falters for a moment, before a stubborn streak crosses his face, eliminating any vulnerability that may have been otherwise showing.

"That… that was before I had a plan," he tries to explain, doing a very bad job of explaining his logic.

"You mean before you knew you had a chance with _her_?" says Katniss scornfully, regarding him with spite in her eyes. "You could have spared me the humiliation, at least."

Now she knows she's being a little too honest for any of their liking, but anger fuels her to the very brink of viciousness, and besides, she wants him to understand she doesn't appreciate being messed around with. He, of all people, should know that.

"No, I…" his voice gets stuck on the way out, not sure what words it should form to make her understand, his mind unable to formulate the right convincing sentences that he knows she needs to hear.

Before he has another chance, she cuts him off with a dismissive, "Whatever." She turns half away from him, to face the trees and look out over the mountain ridge instead, but her eyes see nothing.

"Besides," she goes on, with her teeth grating against each other tightly, again wanting to create distance and a secure wall of anger between them. "You're not my only kiss anymore." There's a note of triumph in her voice, even though she knows it's childish and dumb. When she risks a peek to the side, she feels a rush of dark victory in her blood at seeing his eyes flash angrily. His deep frown tells her that he at least cares, and that's a small victory, even if she shouldn't think like that at all.

"Who else, then?" he spits out, his voice dangerously icy and low. "It's that baker boy, isn't it?" His jaw flexes angrily when he sees her eyes dart to meet his again, as much of a confirmation as he knows he's going to get.

He absolutely hates it.

"So what, he finally grew a backbone? And are you two madly in love now?"

The harsh mocking note in the way he says it, as if the mere idea is ridiculous, sends tongues of livid fire through her veins. In a flash, she has turned toward him again, stretching up on her toes to put her face as threateningly close to his as she can, her whole body tense and strained to hurt something, anything. But only her words can really touch him, and this time, she knows exactly what to say.

"No, Gale." On saying his name, her words loose their furious edge, making the rest even more of significant in their audible honesty. "I'll never be _madly in love _with anyone, ever."

Their eyes are locked together, one pair wide in attention, and the other with brows furrowing deeply in exasperation.

"Why?" he demands, and his eyes are imploring, absolutely mesmerizing, driving the truth which she guards like her most precious belonging out of her, like exorcism.

"Because," she begins, and her voice is unsteady, but clear, "there's only one _special someone_ for me, too." She stares at him for one more short moment, letting the fact that she actually said those words sink in, but then she spins around abruptly to stalk away as fast as her legs will carry her, wanting to get as far away form the impact of those words as the woods permit.

It's a few full seconds before it dawns on Gale what she just said, while his heart seems to stop and his brain seems to freeze, leaving him open-mouthed and disbelieving. When realisation finally dawns on his, sending his heart into a frenzied sprint, she's already too far away on the path, has turned the last bend of the trail to arrive at the fence. He ambles toward it a few steps, but his mind seems to still be in shutdown. He finds his voice, but it's too feint, and she's too far away.

"Katniss, wait! I - "

But she's gone, and no words in the world will make her listen now. Gale finds himself standing alone in the small glade, close enough to the District that he can hear distant noises of voices shouting and doors being slammed, unable to move or think clearly. After several minutes, he takes a few steps to the side, sinks down with his back against a tree trunk, and leans his head back to stare at the grey sky.

Once, not so long ago, her admission would have been the best thing he could ever have imagined – Katniss, in all her careful distance, wanted to be with him, and him only. Unfortunately, now nothing could be worse. He had counted so thoroughly on her to keep her head cold and calculating enough to understand his intentions. Never could he have imagined that one single kiss could have had such a profound impact on her feelings, as he didn't think her receptive enough to really care like she did.

Summer evenings are long, so it is possibly several hours until the sun begins to set behind the trees, reminding him that no matter how chaotic his insides, he has no choice but to get up and walk home.


	18. Only half of you

A/N: Right... Seven months, a lot of personal life-craziness and an increasingly heavy load of guilt later: chapter 18! **I'm s****orry** and **thank you** to those that have not given up, kept hoping for new chapters. It's a lucky thing you did, and that I had already written ahead a bit before I lost motivation to write! I couldn't just leave the story hanging, right?

And besides, this is the story title chapter, so it had to be posted if nothing else. With some luck and hopefully returned imagination, the story will eventually be complete. I certainly want it to be anyway!

Leave me a note with your thoughts if you are still following, but first draw a deep breath. Here goes drama:

* * *

Katniss isn't sure what she's fleeing from the most: the situation she just left behind in a small grove of the forest, or her own thoughts. In a way, they're one and the same, since her mind keeps flooding with images of that precise moment she just caused, to the point where her brain is nothing but one big blur of conflicting emotions. Had she just told him the truth, the one that she had sworn never to utter to another human being as long as she lives- the one that she had been determined to keep away until the feeling itself vanished?

The bleak truth is that yes, she just did, but strangely enough, she feels only half bad about it, like her conscience can not even begin to condemn something that is so pure within her; something that is in the very essence of her being. Where normally she would feel embarrassment to make her cheeks blossom and her palms sweat, she can feel only emptiness inside, from fighting against her instinct that says _return_. In a weird way, it's liberating to know that the truth is out, safe within the heart of the person to whom it always belonged anyway – and who will guard it as safely as she has herself, no doubt.

_Gale_. Half of her wants to keep going until she is as far away from the boy who was once only her best friend as possible, while her other half wants to run back on light feet until she's once again at his side. It's a feeling like thorns ripping her apart, like fever making her cheeks burn and her heartbeat quicken; both irresistible and terrifying. Thankfully, she has somewhere to be, so the decision is not up to her emotions to make. Shaking her head, she picks up her already brisk pace, eager to get inside the district for once, to the place where she has no choice but to keep her mind in strict check. With a quick glance up at the still-blue sky, she decides she should still have just enough time to go by the butcher's and the baker before sunset – and more precisely: before eight o'clock and her now standing Sunday evening meeting.

Just before climbing under the fence, pushing her double-filled game bag in front of her, she stops for a moment, and lets her eyes sweep the edge of the forest behind her, almost expecting to find him standing right there, rushing forward to tell her something in return to her blurted admission. But of course, the treeline is empty of all but greenery and rustling underbrush, and she stares at it, feeling dejected, wondering with terrible uncertainty when she'll see him again. _If_ she'll see him here again? Since she didn't stay long enough to gauge his reaction after she exposed her secret, she has no idea what he might make of it. Sure, he had been the one to start all this in the first place, kissing her goodbye before the Games and all, but wasn't that before, just like she had told him in all her angry honesty? Now he has Madge to think about, and in a twisted way, the Mayor's daughter has first claim on him, what with being his official girlfriend and all. Katniss tries, really _tries_ not to swell up inside with jealousy at the thought, tries to push the thought out of her mind, but it is no use. She _feels_, and the fact that she hates feeling doesn't make it go away. Just because Gale's life has become a game with too many players and too many lives at stake, unfortunately doesn't mean she doesn't feel something about it. However, with him, she's sure she does not have the first place anymore. Otherwise he would have said something back there, surely? If he felt anything for her in return to her confession, he wouldn't have let her escape quite that easily, would he?

The thought propels her forward, sees her through the narrow passage under the fence and up on the other side, where she is suddenly not quite sure weather she is sweating cold with relief or panic. The faint smell of his skin is still in her nostrils, clouding her mind, and if she lets her mind slip, all that comes up is the feeling of his soft cheek against hers, his lean body pressed close. Her first instinct is still to get away, but beneath that, there's a terrible longing, like a jarred edge to her insides aching to please be patched up. Being the hunter that she is, however, first instincts rule out all other commands. With one long, deep breath, she clears her mind as well as she can. Right now is not the time for sentimental rubbish, after all.

At eight o'clock sharp, face carefully assembled and unrevealing, Katniss raps sharply on the mouldy, sunken door of the District 12 tanner. The door swings open halfway almost at once, greeting her with the strong smell of processed hides, and after a suspicious instant, opens wider to reveal the tradesman himself.

"Come to see Garla again, have you?" grunts the middle-aged man, whose shoulders are broad enough to fill up the entire dark doorframe.

"If she's at home, yes," Katniss answers politely, keeping up her end of the show with perhaps a little bit too polished phrases.

"In the backroom," comes the response, and Earl the tanner moves out of the way, leaving the open door. All of a sudden and much to her own surprise, Katniss has developed a close friendship with the tanner's daughter, even though they have never so much as given each other a second glance at school. But here she is, visiting her classmate just like every Sunday lately, and she moves routinely across the dimly lit workroom, down a short set of stairs into the living quarter, and closes the door carefully behind her once there. Too bad Garla is not a home this evening either, but rather out with her friends hanging out by the slag heap like always.

In the backroom is a small, heavy door leading out to the shady back yard, and Katniss exits, taking care to limit her movements and noise with a hunter's precision.

She moves along the wall, where the shadows are the deepest, then ducks under a curtain of ivy, and finds herself in a narrow back late, lit only by the dim rays of sunset. The north corner of the Hob is now almost close enough to touch, and she darts across the paved lane, into the arc of an old entrance across from it. Reflecting that she has never felt more like a thief in the night than in moments like these, she pushes aside what looks like part of a house wall, and enters into a small, dingy room without windows.

"Katniss!"

In the seconds before her vision adapts, she can see only shadows and shady outlines of people, but she would recognize that voice, and the calm enthusiasm in it any time.

"Thom. Sorry I'm a little late," she mutters, while taking great care to close the false door securely behind her.

"It's quite alright, Princess. Not like we have limited time or anything," drawls a gravelly voice from the far corner of the small room.

When she turns around, the contours are finally clearing in the dim light of two smoky lampions turned down low, and she can make out Haymitch's slumped figure.

"Save your breath for important things, then," she quips under her breath, while taking two careful steps to the left and sinking down in a seated position against the wall next to her schoolmate.

"Yorke, next time she talks, I'll hold you personally responsible," grinds the older man through his teeth, but straightens up and rubs his hands expectedly at the same time.

All in all, there are six people in the room, and by some misdirection of faith, Haymitch Abernathy is their undisputed leader, as the creator of the District 12 organised resistance. That is at least what they would like to call themselves, as if the name would somehow make their mission any less impossible. As it is, they are only six, and it's a mere wish that they could ever increase their number without detection – which would mean instant death and misery in the district.

"And what if she has something important to say?" counters Thom, eyebrows raised in an unimpressed mask. Before the older man whips his head around their way, Thom's lips quirk up and his eyes shine with the good-natured humour that is never far off. Katniss is still trying to figure out why this boy, whom she barely knew at all until six weeks ago, is so nice to her. She figures it has something to do with sharing a secret, but is still rather suspicious of his easy-going ways.

Haymitch utters a harrumphing snort, and scowls at the two of them. "Hasn't happened so far, that's for sure," he grumps out, while starting a light pace across the limited length of the room.

It's a true statement, Katniss reflects, but in her defence she has only been a member of this small group for less than two months now. And more importantly: since when do they ever have something important to report? Resistance in Panem is not exactly big, showy business, but rather a matter of dogged determination and endless patience. And hopefully, at some point, some good luck. While waiting for that possible future opportunity, all they can do is try to undermine the system, little by little. As the most off-cast, resource poor district in the nation, the residents of Twelve are somewhat less strictly controlled than others, and this is what gives them any marginal to work with at all.

Katniss clears her throat quietly. "And what if today I actually do?" she speaks up, and is rewarded with a glance of pure impatience from Haymitch.

"Then shut that frowning little mouth of yours, sweetheart, and wait for your turn," he retorts, in his usual charming brusqueness.

Before that first Sunday, when she followed Thom's vague description and ended up in a room with four other suspicious people who didn't really want her there, she only knew their leader to see. The town drunkard, he is a regular sight at the Hob, but she and Gale had never had any reason to do business with him. She used to have nothing but contempt for the man, and when Gale was shipped off to the Capitol with only him for guidance, she had put no hope in that he could be of any help to her best friend. However, since then she had been forced to re-evaluate her opinion on Haymitch's mental abilities. That doesn't mean that they have to like each other.

The District 12 mentor had come back from the Games looking rather sober but more haggard than usual, and had been none to pleased to discover that his Sunday meetings had sprouted another member. As she already knew of their existence, there had not been any options other than to let her stay, but the man made a damn good point of letting her know she was not initially welcome. All the other four members are assigned some kind of tasks – Thom, representing the miners, has a big responsibility since down deep, the Capitol are at least partially out of reach and tongues not as closely watched. Another woman across the room, whom Katniss recognised the first time she came here as one of the engineers in the mines, shares this responsibility with him.

On the opposite side of the room from Katniss, a middle-aged man with a stern face called Fred starts speaking, reporting on the past week's activities in the Justice Building. He works as assistant secretary to the Head Peacekeeper in town, a position important enough for him to know what goes on in the office, yet irrelevant enough to make him pass under the radar. This week, he doesn't have much to say.

"Old Cray keeps up the usual crap, pretty much," grumbles the greyish-haired and lank man, whose relentless habit of chewing tobacco fills the air with a peculiar smell every time he opens his mouth. "Sits on his fat ass, accepts bribes left right and centre, deals out the odd arbitrary punishment. Goes home and socialises with girls half his age, now that the Capitolite Inspection are gone again."

"None too soon either," grumbles the old man sitting next to him. "Business has been a damn hassle lately."

Katniss had not exactly been surprised to find that old Grant is also an active resistant to the Capitol. As the underground armorer, he is always on the wrong side of the law anyway, and has paid dearly for it during his surprisingly long life. The Capitol has robbed him of everything from his wife to his left eye, but rather than quench his spirit, it has made him fiercely revengeful.

"Unfortunately, business is probably going to be problematic for another good while," muses Fred, earning glances from all around the room. Only Haymitch does not look surprised to hear this.

"You mean with the shit our two young love birds stirred up?" he asks, looking even more scornful than usual.

"Of course he means that," quips Grant. "What were you thinking, letting that happen? Have you gone soft on me in old days?"

Haymitch barks a short, humourless laugh. "Don't worry, I don't have a soft bone in my body. However, I'm their mentor, not their mother. If they want to deliberately cause themselves problems, then fine."

"But we're not just talking about problems for them now, are we?" Grant smacks his lips discontentedly, while at the same time looking deep in thought.

Then Thom straightens up beside Katniss, and beats Haymitch to the word: "We are looking at opportunity, the way I see it."

All eyes divert themselves to stare at the young man instead. Katniss feels a cold streak of ill foreboding creeping up her neck when she sees the light go on in their eyes; the realisation that some of them have not reached until now. Fortunately, Haymitch is not on the enthusiastic side either.

"Bravo my young genius, you figured it out," he drawls. "However, we are certainly looking at a hell of a lot more trouble than opportunity, to begin with."

"That's true," says Fred in his usual quiet voice. "Security is left higher than normal, permanently. And they decided to bug the Village."

"Well no surprise there," muses Haymitch, pacing back and forth again. "I'm surprised they haven't shipped in troops to control our every movement yet."

She knows what they are talking about, has picked up enough information about the ways of the Capitol from her Sundays here and combined it with her own wits to know this much: Gale and Madge are not going to be forgiven for their stunt at the end of the Games. What it has caused goes far beyond the fact that they managed to both survive, has already had an impact on the minds of the whole population of Panem. What they did was an act of defiance, and now they are icons. For the first time in memory, the people have seen hope, and for this the Capitol is going to makes their lives very hard from now on. Again, opposition to the rulers is slow, hard work, and she knows they have to bide their time before acting on anything. The thought of gambling her best friend's life against freedom seems absurd, and she's not quite sure it is a chance she's willing to take.

The discussion goes on for another while, but Katniss only half listens to them as they talk about facts she already knows. At the very least, everyone agrees that the one at the centre of attention is not Gale, but rather their very own Girl on Fire.

"All right, princess," comes Haymich's gravelly voice after some time, shaking her from her thoughts. "You claimed to have something important to tell us before. Could it possibly have something to do with whom you spent the day?"

She meets his smug gaze with narrowed eyes. Really, it ought not to surprise her that he knows of Gale's whereabouts and of their close friendship. Come to think about it, that may ultimately be why he chose to keep her around. Still, it disturbs her to discuss her private life with these people, and she's not going to act as some kind of spy.

"What could I possibly have to tell you, since you already seem to know?" she answers steadily, cheek defiantly out.

In response, he stops his pacing to come stand right in front of her, squinting down with his milky blue-green eyes at her. "Let me tell _you_ something then," he says, flapping down on the sole doorstep to lean in eye to eye. "This is bigger than you and your little teenage problems and relations. Hell, this is bigger than any of our lives. I think that on some level of your hormonal brain, you can understand. Even that ogre of a hunting partner of yours can sometimes grasp the concept of a purpose, and God forbid you are stupider than he is. I think not, to be honest."

He pauses for a short moment, regarding her with scepticism layered with an odd humour. "And that is why I am only going to tell you this once, kid. You have my dear little boy-victor wrapped around your finger. Right now, he serves us no real purpose other than staying alive and out of trouble. And correct me if I am wrong, but I think the major issue at hand with that is, in fact, _you_."

He raises an eyebrow, dares her to contradict her. She doesn't.

"Therefore, you now have a task within this group: and it is to keep Hawthorne from doing anything stupid. For all I know, it is the fucking hardest task of anyone in this room," he chuckles darkly, "so you should feel honoured."

Ten seconds pass in silence, while she first looks at him levelly, and then stares some at the ceiling. It doesn't take longer than that for her to first realise he means exactly what she thinks he mean, and then to realise that he is right. She can clearly see the logic, despite how much it pisses her off to have to relent to it. The insight that despite the fact that Gale is alive and home, things can never be the same again, weights her spirit down like a ton of bricks.

"I get it," she confirms, in a voice resigned enough that even Haymitch has no smart remarks in store.

"That's that then," he says, and then announces the meeting over for this time.

Should have stayed in the forest, Katniss' thinks to herself, as she rises up, wondering how on earth life could take so many wrong turns in just one single day.

* * *

It's a full week before they meet again, the following Sunday. Either they avoid each other by some unspoken agreement, or else they have just failed to meet each other in the woods during the week. She knows he's been there, sees traces of his presence along their common hunting trails, but she makes no effort to cross paths with him. Neither is he ever there waiting for her when she shows up pre dawn or late afternoons. On her part, it is equally parts humiliation and concern that makes her so reluctant, makes her want to postpone the inevitable for as long as possible. Whatever it is on his part, she can only speculate on, and speculate she does against her will. Quite possibly, he has chosen not to see her because he understands she needs space after blurting out her unfortunate feelings. He knows her, knows she doesn't take these things lightly. Not the way he obviously does these days. Worst case scenario, he is avoiding her out of embarrassment. It's not that Gale was ever inclined towards feeling ashamed about anything, but still; finding out that your best friend is in love with you when you're really in love with someone else is bound to be awkward. To her, that's still the most plausible explanation, and it makes her want to crawl out of her skin every time the thought crosses her mind.

But then she wakes up early Sunday morning, before even first light, with a feeling of resigned determination. No point in putting off seeing him any longer. A small part of her lower, short-sighted consciousness is also jumping excitedly up and down at the prospect. Once at their usual meeting spot, she doesn't have to wait long before he shows up.

The sun has just risen, veiled behind a curtain of clouds, and the light breeze that sweeps through the canopy every now and then smells like impending rain. A perfect day for walking far into the forest in search of less common prey, but also a wretched day for miserable business. As always, he just appears as if from nowhere, all of a sudden standing there in the open space between two firs with an expression that says he's not surprised to find her there. Her heart skips a beat in something like fear, only much stronger.

"You came," he says, as he walks up to her and removes his leather satchel from over the shoulder, sinks down beside her in one fluid movement.

For probably the first time since she first met him, Katniss finds his company unsettling, like the uncertainty between them has created a rift in their friendship. She chews lightly on the end of her long braid, plucks at the individual hairs to avoid looking at him. Just the unavoidable scent of him is enough trouble, as she finds all the words she potentially should be using right now have fled from her mind. When he opens his pack and hands her half a piece of fresh baked rye bread, she throws him a quick look.

"My mother was up early, too," he says simply, and his eyes do this weird thing where they smile at her even though the rest of him is expressionless.

She heaves a sight, and accepts the luxurious breakfast despite everything. Since she doesn't know where to begin with this ordeal anyway, she decides to put it off for another while. The minutes pass while they chew the bread and slurp on warm mint tea, and eventually the silence turns almost comfortable. Her tense shoulders ease up, and his lower arm even presses against hers in the small space, without much fuss. It does send tickles of something up her spine, but she lets it be, sort of likes them. Coming to the conclusion that he doesn't know what to say either, she lets the silence drag on, while they look out over the vastness of the trees for some time, and then as they by silent agreement pick up their bows and packs, head out to start the day.

The silence lasts until about midday, and the trigger that breaks it is- predictably enough- an argument. They have walked quite a distance down to lower ground, where the vegetation is thicker and greener and where they know that larger creatures than squirrels dwell. When the chance comes, it happens very fast. After an hour of carefully tracking a small flock of deer, they finally come upon the animals in a perfect scenario. He takes a stance on the trail by which they came, and she circles the clearing to take aim from the other direction. It would have been a perfect trap, seamless teamwork like usual, if it weren't for a slight miscalculation on her part.

Katniss is halfway up a small tree for better range, when the next branch she grips turns out to be rotten all through, and she loses her balance as it breaks. Falling helplessly from about twice her own height, she has time to think two things. First of all, that Gale should still have enough time shoot one of the deer, before they scatter from the sudden noise. Secondly, _shit_, as she hears his voice shouting her name in distress. No way did he aim correctly if he watched her fall instead. She even has the presence of mind to flex her muscles in the right way to break her fall somewhat, knowing from experience how to do it. The impact knocks the breath out of her, and the elbow she lands on is sure to be black and blue in a short time, but otherwise she's fine. Before she can regain her breath, however, Gale's worried face swims into vision above her.

"Are you alright?" He bends down to lift her back into an upright position, sweeping the hair from her face.

Coughing for air, it takes her a few secondly to choke out an answer: "_No_, you idiot."

His eyebrows shoot up momentarily, before he frowns at her again. "Well tell me what's wrong then. Your arm?" He reaches out to fold up her shirt, but she twists the arm away, wincing as the movement sends sparks of pain down her spine. It will pass in a while though she's sure, the way it usually goes with elbows and knees.

"I'm fine," she hisses, turning her furious gaze upon him. "But you let them get away. Why the fuck didn't you just shoot?"

Gale leans away, frowning even deeper at her and looking increasingly irritated. "I saw you falling! How am I supposed to think about shooting a damn deer when you could have been seriously hurt?"

"I always fall out of damn trees, you know that!" she bites back, stretching her hurt arm fully to test the bones with a strained face. "Didn't use to stop you from doing your job before." Convinced that she is indeed fine, she moves to stand up and brush the dirt and pine needles from her clothes.

He remains hunched down on the ground, unsettlingly still and fixing her with a steady gaze. She recognises it as his pissed off stance, and something inside her revels in the ability to trigger his temper.

"But oh, I forgot," she goes on, derisive voice drawing fuel from all the irritation she has felt over this guy lately. "Now that you're rich, why would you even have to make an effort anymore? All you need to do these days is smile and wave and love up some girl, and money practically grows out of your pocket." Meeting his darkening gaze for another second, she then proceeds to go pick up her bow where it fell under the tree.

Predictably, he doesn't let her get away with it.

"Do you know what it feels like to kill a person, Katniss?" His voice, low but intense, is suddenly right next to her ear, making her jump half out of her own skin.

She twists her head around towards him, meeting his eyes, which are black, bottomless with rage and despair too old for his years. She forces herself to keep looking right into them despite that they turn her blood cold; waits for his next words.

"Do you know what it feels like to see children die, for no apparent reason other than for fun? To feel hunted day and night? To lose control of your own life?" For each question, his voice increases in strength, and she can see little muscles in his jaw and arms knot up tight.

"Do you think the price I have paid was worth it, huh? Do you think I enjoy any of this shit?"

She stays quiet, her own anger temporarily quelled by his obvious upcoming rant.

"You might think that you saw what happened on the screens, but you can never fucking imagine it, Katniss. The stress, the desperate hope that the next minute won't be the last, never sleeping for more than short spells here and there, waking up paranoid with the sole hope that another _kid_ will die next instead of you. All that _death_. I used to see blood wherever I looked, even if it was not there, used to feel it on my hands when I had not spilled it myself. And all for what? Can you please fucking tell me the damn reason for it all!"

His hands cut futile gestures through the air, and his eyes are too wide, but she stays put, quite sure that this is a tirade that he has built up for a long time.

"But do you know the worst part? It's not even really the killings. The real inhumanity is that they strip you of every last bit of your own person, in one way or another. It's the only means to survive. And who does that leave me, do you think? Who have I possibly become, if I let all that happen to me?"

"You had no choice," she says under her breath. "You promised me."

He smiles a terrible, grinning smile. "I had no fucking clue what I promised when I told you that."

"A promise is a promise, still."

"Is it really, Catnip? Even if that promise left me no choice but to live my life as a lie? Even after what it did to you?"

She pales at this mention, furrows her brow in confusion, but still knows the answer. "You're alive."

"Yes," he answers, but his eyes never change from their frightening, hallow expression. A dry, humourless chuckle escapes him, as he draws a hand across his face. "Alive. Whatever that's supposed to mean now."

To this, she has no idea what to say. It is not a way of thinking that has ever crossed her mind, and she answers with the only solution she knows. "It means going on with life each day, just like before. For example, it means trying your best to shoot a deer when you have the chance," she tries to nag him, hoping for a lighter mood but getting nothing.

A light rain begins to fall around them, drizzling slowly to stain their clothes through the thick canopy above. She looks up, catches a drop on her forehead, and when she looks back at him again his eyes have changed character, the fury evaporated to give way for desolation. It's even worse.

"Ten people are dead so that I can live. I can't lose you too, Katniss," he says, reaching out a hand to grasp hers, much to her surprise. An electric current of sparks fly up her arm at the touch, and her heart flutters wildly, and it's so sudden and still such an unfamiliar feeling, that she snaps back her hand from his grasp without thinking.

In response, he swears under his breath, clearly agitated, and turns away from her to stalk after his own left-behind bow. After a moment of confusion, she hurries after him.

"What do you mean?" she asks quietly.

He rounds on her, and suddenly they're face to face, up close. "You know very well what I mean! I know you have not been quite as blind to this thing between us as you have pretended. And I was prepared to give you time, all the time you needed because one day, I was convinced that you would give up and see what was always right in front of your nose. Your problem is that you are too damn stubborn, Katniss! You shape your own reality from what you chose to acknowledge and what you chose not to."

The words shock her into silence at first, gaping at him and at all these accusations that unfortunately are very true. Soon after the surprise follows renewed anger though, and indignation that he _dares _talk to her like this after everything he has put her through.

"Who's shaping their own reality here, really?" she quips, meeting his stare levelly. "Since _when_ are you even crazy in love with Madge Undersee?"

His eyebrows shoot up and he crosses him arms, clearly prepared for a match in extreme obstinacy. "Since when do you care?"

She grinds her teeth in frustration, knowing full and well that he knows the answer to that and is only trying to provoke her now. He's very close to succeeding, so she throws another question back at him instead. "Why did you kiss me? Worst timing in the world!"

"Would you have figured out you have feelings for me, had I not?"

Narrow-eyed and frowning, their eyes locked, they both know this argument has no winner, but none of them have any idea how to stop it.

Katniss heaves an impatient sigh, mutters: "What does that even matter, Gale?"

"_It matters_," he says then, several layers of anger gone from his voice and replaced with another kind of intensity, "it matters more than you can ever imagine! Everything wouldn't be such a fucking mess, if only you would have figured it out earlier!"

"But you never gave me a chance to!" she exclaims forcefully, her arms cutting the air with futile frustration. "Not until… you did, and then…"

He looks at her with such intense distress in his wide, stormy eyes, that she doesn't know how to go on explaining. There doesn't seem to be words enough to sort out these emotions swirling between them like dark clouds of misery.

"And then what?" he says, his voice rasping and muted, like he's not quite able to utter the question, of which the answer he's not quite sure he wants to know.

She swallows down a growing lump in her throat, but it is still burning like barbed wire is strung all the way down to her lungs, armed with suppressed wants and wishes.

"Then it was too late," she presses out, her voice laced with the heavy weight of loneliness. She lets her eyelids fall together, and her head succumb to the pressure. It's better if she doesn't look at him, if he just went away already and didn't make this any harder than it has to be for either of them.

Something deep inside her chest sparks into life, and her blood sings in joy, when she feels his body against hers, while at the same time she tries to resist. But there is no getting away, his hands have already entrapped her face between them and turns it up to his. She keeps her eyes closed, but breathes in deep when hot air escapes him and fans out over her lips, and leans in to the pressure of his forehead against hers.

"Nothing is ever too late, while we're still together," he says forcefully, with so much intensity that she knows he's trying to convince himself more than her. She doesn't respond, letting herself believe his words for a short moment.

Their noses brush slightly against each other, but that's all. He knows very well, beyond even his screaming instincts, that this is not the time for their first proper kiss. He kissed her once before, in a moment when it was impulsive and desperate, and laced with sorrow that went deep inside their bones, much like now. In his head before all this madness, he would always think that he would kiss her for the first time in the peace and quiet of their forest, with sunshine warming her lips and reaching far inside their hearts.

He thought he'd wait for the right time, wait until she was ready to leave some of her worry behind and be susceptible for the astounding tension that had always been there between them. Perhaps after her last reaping, when he would know for sure he'd get to keep her forever. Either way, in common of all the scenarios he'd imagined over the years had been the sheer _happiness _of finally getting to be close to her in the way he yearned for - not this crushing sadness, this desperation so heavy he can barely breathe.

Nothing good will come out of kissing her now, when he's positive their kiss would only taste of tears spilled out of two pairs of grey eyes. So he settles for holding her close, breathing in her scent and holding it in, wishing for it to stay in his memory for ever, or at least until he gets to hold her again. Preferably the latter.

After a moment, he can feel some of the tension seeping out of her, as she relaxes a little against his chest, and her arms wind around his waist in a tight grip. He follows suit, releases her head to let it fall down against his collarbone and folds her in tight to him. Burying his face in her thick, wavy hair, he forces himself to draw in long, steady breaths.

Eternities might have passed without either of them noticing, but eventually Gale tries to pull back, words of action on his tongue. He doesn't get very far, feels himself gripped even more tightly by desperately strong arms. The air catches in his throat, and he gives in, presses her closer still, hoping for one precious moment that it means everything will be okay, but in vain.

Because Katniss has a plan of her own, and all she needs to set it in motion is just another little extra push of willpower. And she does not have it yet, but maybe with one more indefinitely long spell in his arms, she'll find her courage. While she clutches him close, all she can think of is the infinite amount of time in front of her, all the imminent years, _decades_ even, of loneliness. Gale is not hers anymore, no more than she can ever be his, except for in her heart, where she knows he'll always have the first place, no matter how much time passes apart. She'll see him every now and then, she's sure, but they can no longer be a team, the hunting partners they used to be, let alone anything more. In all rationality, this should not bother her; hasn't she always imagined that this would be the case anyway? Gale would probably marry some girl eventually, in which case he'd be lost to her in every real sense. But she always imagined they would still have the woods, perhaps on their free Sundays, and perhaps they'd work in the same crew in the mines, if the day came when they'd have no choice but to sell their souls to the darkness below ground.

It's not exactly her decision, but she's well aware that Gale needs to stop sneaking out to see her here, perhaps needs to stop coming out to the woods altogether, now that he's in the centre of the Capitol's attention. And also, he most definitely needs to stop thinking about her as anything beyond a dear cousin. Katniss is very familiar with duty, especially when it concerns keeping alive those she loves. And right now duty seems to involve keeping a safe distance from the boy who holds her happiness in his agile hands. She knows he can't be counted on to live along with the rules that have been applied over his life, but both their families' wellbeing is at stake, and in Katniss' view, there's no choice.

The only problem is, every time she sees herself ten, twenty, forty years on, she feels the pang of crushing despair at the thought of her life without him, in a way without even her family, since they're too closely connected to his for it to be safe. Perhaps, if she were strong enough, she should escape into the woods on her own, leave it all behind and try her best to forget. They wouldn't chase her very far, if it were to be just her alone. Gale would take care of her family, probably much better than she can herself. After all, she's the problem in this drama, and she feels the weight of that realisation like poison in her blood, feels it already seeping into her soul as bitterness.

She gasps for air against the fabric of his shirt, that smells so much like safety, and she can feel her own hands begin to tremble as she tries to pull herself together for a first attempt. But before she can even begin, he has somehow guessed at her intention. He holds her out a few inches, tilts her face up with a strong hand, and stares into it closely.

"Katniss?" he questions, trembling over her name. His eyes change focus between hers, searching her mind. For one fleeting moment, she thinks that this may be why she can't think straight when he looks at her like this; his unwavering attention, focused without interruption on her solely. It sets her heart pounding and her blood racing every time.

What he sees makes his heart beat faster again, this time with fear. He can't guess at even half of the reasons behind the deep sadness in her eyes, but what he does understand is the attempt at resignation in them.

"No, no, don't. I-" His stuttered attempt will get him nowhere, and he knows it. With a firms grip on her arms so she can't escape just yet, he closes his eyes for one moment, tries desperately to control his spinning head and find the right words.

Katniss can see the change in him - the determination that will get him anything he wants, as long as he wants in enough - seeping back into his posture. If she lets him focus on her like this any longer, she'll be a lost cause, so she averts her eyes.

"We'll figure it out, trust me," he says fervently, but with new certainty ringing in the words.

It's too late though, or perhaps it always was, because she has already closed him off, resigned herself to that part of her mind where no one, not even Gale, is ever let in. Her arms fall to her sides, hands cramping from clutching his shirt too tight.

"We probably shouldn't hunt together for a while, at least," she says, looking firmly down at the ground.

"But what if I need you?" His voice in no more than a whisper, cutting right into her heart, which she tries her best to steel. Suddenly, something other than sorrow flares up inside her, and she embraces it, recognising anger to be so much easier to live with than sadness.

"You'll just have to need _her_ instead." Doing her best to ignore the look of devastation, mixed with fury that appears on his face, she takes a step back and turns around, away from him. Her heart is pounding, but she knows she must move her feet away from this place, and the sooner the better.

"And who will you need?" The words leave his mouth before he can think them through, and if he weren't so filled with dark emotion that he could burst, he would regret them. It's enough to make her halt her steps temporarily, her back strained with tension.

_I needed you, but I was too stupid to realise, and now everything has fallen apart_, is what flitters through her mind, but what she refuses to say out loud. She won't, just won't feel sorry for herself, is what she tells herself. So aloud, all she says is:

"Just myself," through gritted teeth. Then she manages to put one foot in front of the other, again and again, until the trees swallow her up and she can no longer feel his presence behind her.

Gale can do nothing but watch her go, even though if feels like she's ripping little pieces of his heart out with every step she takes. He has never felt more powerless in his life.


	19. A message received

To calm all worries that it would be another seven motnhs before the next chapter, here's number nineteen. It's a bit of an in-between one, as I am well aware. But some of it has been on my mind since I started writing this, and then the word count just ran away with me. As per request, Madge makes an appearance. Great idea, so thanks for that to elle81!

As for the plot below on Haymitch's time in the Games, someone else is due credit for that. Embarrassingly enough, I can't quite remember if it's in the original story or from some excellent fanfiction that I can't tell apart from the book, and I am currently not able to look it up. Probably some alert reader can help me put here?

Of course, thanks a million for the reviews! I promise I will get around to replying as soon as possible!

* * *

If Katniss has a superpower, then it is to always get through the day, any means allowed. You could call it her special skill, to see to that ends meet and hours pass, no matter what conditions and obstacles life throws her way. As of lately, she feels that life has thrown her a bit more trouble than what really seems fair, but okay, such are the circumstances. Her best odds right now lie in just dealing with it.

That way, high summer eventually passes, gives way to cooler winds and less intrusive sunshine as August comes to an end. The woods are practically stuffed with mushrooms, edible berries and wildlife. Useful medicinal plants seem to throw themselves her way, begging to be brought home to her mother, whose mobile medical service prospers in return. The meat she brings in becomes salted and stored, or traded for supplies and firewood and over all, they have never been more prepared for winter in her house. The practical side to life is easy. Katniss can even afford to cautiously limit her time outside the District fence to early mornings only, thereby restricting the risk of more trouble with the authorities and the dire consequences that would be sure to follow, a second time around.

Thus her days are strictly spent hunting, trading, sitting off hours in school and helping out with her mother's errands and the housework, when she's away on calls. Solely in the company of her small family, and Sunday evenings in that small crammed room beside the Hob- growing increasingly restless as too many words are said and very little action actually achievable. For every week that passes in this old yet drastically different routine, it becomes just a little easier, along the principle that you can't miss what is out of your reach. Not in practise anyway. Whatever her mind wanders to think of in careless moments, she tries her best to shake it off as quickly as possible when she catches herself doing it.

When her father died, she had learnt that the only way is forward; and forward is the only way now, with or without a best friend. Coming home that night after the last time she saw him in the forest, her willpower completely spent on the sheer act of walking away and her heart hammering conflictingly, she had allowed herself exactly one night to mourn her blotched, wretched life. Unable to stop it from happening- no matter how out of character or against her principles- she had closed the front door behind her and dropped everything in her hands, vaguely aware of her mother and sister regarding her with worried eyes. Much to all of their shared surprise, she had then proceeded to sink down to the floor- shoes and all- and begun to cry uncontrollably. She had let her head fall into her hands; let the tears fall until she could barely breathe anymore. Katniss even let her mother and Prim dote on her worriedly, as long as they didn't demand any explanations. She accepted their guiding soft hands when they gently led her up off the floor, into the bedroom and down unto her bed. When her beloved little sister curled up against her back and a warm, calloused hand smoothed out her hair, peeled off her jacket, she didn't put up any kind of fight to retain her private space.

Likely guessing at her sudden display of unhappiness, they mostly let her be other than that. Maybe they had been expecting it to happen for quite some time. In hindsight, Katniss guesses it was the sheer finality of it that made her snap.

Whatever the reason or the consequences, she woke up the next morning after a heavy sleep feeling hollowed out, her limbs weighting her down and her eyes puffy and achy. If she didn't absolutely _have to_ get out of bed, she doesn't think she would have made it. By silent agreement, her family had spoken nothing of it, and she does her best to forget the breakdown ever happened. Every morning after that got just a little easier, and now here she is; something like the old spring in her step regained, going through her everyday business with a choice smile here and there, even. She takes great pride in it actually, like telling life itself "_ha, see? I'm just fine, love lost or not. I never needed anyone else than myself, didn't I tell you?"_

But in the back of her mind, Gale is always there; the constant shadow of a thought. She wonders if it will pass as time runs it course, and sometimes if she wants it to.

Primrose is born on the last day of summer, as the calendar goes. Their father used to have this speech about it, along the lines that his lastborn was the product of all the loveliness of summer combined, crowned with sunrays and shining with life. Just like her mother. No such things were ever said about Katniss, come into life as she is in the dead of winter. Then again, she was never one for flattery and between the two of them, he used to tell her that's what had given her a cunning mind.

As the 31st of August comes around this year, autumn is already in the air and the nights getting colder. The sun is still warm however and the shadows are not yet too long to hinder her on her morning hunts. Egged on by restlessness and a need escape, she has trekked further and further into the woods in the last few weeks, until on this Sunday her exertions have really paid off. It is with a feeling of almost excitement that Katniss hurries home long the tracks of the dense forest, her game bag loaded full of goodness. For once, Prim's birthday is going to be nothing short of the celebration she deserves.

A trip to the Hob and a decent amount of haggling later, she walks down the winding dirt road that leads up to their house with steps lighter than they have been for a long time. The late afternoon sun is angled against the dirty window panes of her neighbours' houses, some gaping empty much like hollow eyes. Coming up to the front gate to their grey Seam house, the light blocks out her view of the inside completely. However, the unlocked door assures her that the house is not empty, and she smiles as she tugs open her bag, takes another good look at its contents as she pushes through the rickety gate. A fat, whole fish and wild raspberries, plus fresh cream, carrots and green beans- all the condiments she could think of. One hand opens the front door, while the other one digs up the wrapped fish, almost too heavy for her to hold up in one hand.

"Hey, birthday-duck! Look what I pulled up for you at the lake," she calls as she shoulders across the threshold, gripping the catch with two hands and solely watching her feet as she enters the room. "And I found raspberries! A whole grove of them, you wouldn't bel-". She pauses abruptly- fish in the air and halfway through digging for the pouch of berries- and freezes in place.

Seven pairs of eyes stare back at her, whereas she was expecting at most two. Also, the occupants of the room are neatly seated at their dining table, on stools and barrels and each other's laps and whatever's available for sitting. And on the table, on a cheerfully blue plastic dish, sits an actual birthday cake, lights and all. Honestly, she thinks, it's gorgeous. Decidedly not home made, but from the baker's shop; different coloured frosting, the number 13 once written in green across but now half cut away. The works.

"Katniss!" comes her sister's exultant voice from over the other side of the creamy fantasy. "Look! Gale bought me a _birthday cake_."

Still frozen in place, Katniss takes a short moment then to get her bearings, with the feeling like a stone sinking rapidly though her midsection. Around the table are four smiling kids, all with various amounts of cake-rests decorating their faces, two women regarding her with expectant caution- and then _him_. For another second, she's so surprised to see his face again, after all these weeks of imagining it, that she forgets to react.

"It's strawberry and cream, and vanilla butter cake, and _oooh_ you just have to try some!" chatters Prim, almost jumping off her chair and holding out a forkful of white-red-spongy stuff.

Katniss snaps her eyes decidedly that way, stares at the sugary concoction with all her willpower in order to force the presence of the boy sitting next to her little sister into her peripheral vision. He burns there, a blur of black hair and blue shirt that she refuses to really see. She can feel his eyes bore into her as clearly as if she were looking right into them. Staring at the present that her former best friend has obviously bought her sister, something else becomes very apparent, too. She glances down to the things in her own hands, then back again at the happy glow in her sister's eyes. Her cheeks begin to burn.

"We didn't expect you home until later," says her mother softly, probably aiming to say something to clear up the situation but only making it even more painfully, evidently awkward.

"Right," mumbles Katniss, feeling her face erupt into angry flames as a terrible feeling of inadequacy takes hold of her.

Unable to meet anyone's eyes, she shifts in place lightly, wishing only for powers to sink through the wooden floorboards. She's very much aware of his eyes still focusing alertly on her, knowing they miss nothing.

"So what was it you were going to show me?" beams Prim, probably too excited and high on the luxury of sugar to be able to interpret the situation correctly.

Katniss clears her throat, which is suddenly burning with anger; tries and fails to smooth out her mashed-together eyebrows. All she can think is _how dares he_? while at the same time, she realises she ought to be happy for Prim's sake. Well fuck it, she has her limits. Stuffing back the cursed giant (forell) in her bag with lightly shaking hands, she forces her face back into a blank state.

"Nothing," she presses out through lips that would love to form shouting rather than civilised conversation. "I have to go."

She knows she's being childish, and when she catches a glimpse of the fading smile on her sister's face, she feels horribly guilty. But no, she can't to this. It has taken everything she has to swear Gale out of her life and keep him there, and he can't just pop up like this, a cake-bearing jack-in-the-box, when she least expects it. She had been _happy_, damn it, about the prospect of surprising Prim with something of a treat- and he had beaten her to it. Had beaten her by miles, actually.

She takes great care to avoid all further eye contact. Exiting the house minutes after she came, she is light-headed with anger, so incredibly mad with him that she doesn't know what to do with herself. If she didn't posses the self-control of a saint, she would have slammed the door and punched at everything in her way, a proper tantrum. Before it shuts close, she hears her name called in a deep voice, and the sound of a chair scraping against the floor. However, nobody follows her out.

It doesn't take many minutes for the anger to turn sour and when it does, she wishes she could stay angry forever. She flops down against the wall of a dirty back lane, with hot tears burning indignantly at her eyes. The scene she just caused keeps repeating itself in her mind, each rerun bringing out new mistakes on her part. She has carefully thought herself never to wear her emotions on the outside, never to let her feelings rule. It's just that whenever _he_ is involved, caution is gone with the wind. All over again, the lines of his face that she has so carefully erased from her mind are fixed to her inner eye, his presence blinking like a warning light at her for attention. How dare he ruin all her hard work in five minutes sharp?

On the other hand, there's a mountain of guilt that stops her from making any further progress onwards. Of course she wants Primrose to have the best things in life: how could she not? But how is she supposed to be able to compete with the riches of a Victor? For some reason, it seems like a competition to her, because taking care of Prim is _her job_, and it's one she's been damn good at so far. Most of the time, it is the main purpose of her life. And it's absolutely crushing her that now there's someone who can better her at it. Her hand shakes a little as she pushes her hair back, props her head up.

Once again, it seems that the problem at hand is _she_. Without her and her issues, Prim and her mother could go live with the Hawthornes in their grand uptown house. They're _family,_ after all. They would never have to want for food or break their backs over the struggle for money. No more meagre grains in exchange for name slips. New clothes, school supplies, lunch packs every day- you name it. They would have it all. Why hasn't it crossed her mind before? It's the ultimate solution, which means that probably it would have had to happen, sooner or later. Here is now her chance for realisation, her chance to set it right.

Staring up at the almost twilight sky, the scent of the first few kerosene lamps wafting in from the home she's inadvertently leaning on, she wonders for the hundredth time _why._ Never mind injustice: this is the final straw. _Just when you thought you had nothing left to lose…_ the darkening blue sky seems to tell her.

Two hours later the fish is sold for a whole precious gold coin, the berries traded for a bowl of deliciously thick meat stew to settle her stomach, and she sits on her usual bar stool at Greasy Sae's, just waiting for eight o'clock to roll around. Let them please have some ideas in store for her today, she thinks, because she is so ready for something else than mere words. With no future and almost nothing left to lose, would it really be too much to ask for a cause in life? Katniss has never much believed in fate or ulterior destinies, but with everything that has happened lately, she has begun to think that this is the purpose why she was brought into this world. The small chance of ever defeating the Capitol, however slight, is her only chance it seems. Like a small spark of reserve power, drawing on years of futile anger, it has begun to burn inside her.

The thought hits her that she has become like Gale, or at least like the boy Gale used to be. She's flared up with anger, whereas he seems to have become subdued by too much of it, like she has taken over his life dream too.

How very fitting.

* * *

A couple of days later, her relative peace of mind is once again disturbed, this time by the person she would have least of all suspected. Katniss is at home, washing the dinner dishes while her mother does her best to mend a beginning hole in the toe of Katniss' hunting boots. The TV is muted as low as the Capitol-issued machine will go with the evening broadcast, which never covers anything worth knowing, but that everybody deems as worth to keep up with anyway. The speaker voice blabbers on about something in the background, unintelligible to her ears by habit unless on a rare occasion it brings up something she wants to hear.

"Prim should be back from evening class by now," says her mother suddenly, starting Katniss out of her mental calculations about winter storages.

"There's usually a few of them walking back together," she answers absentmindedly, not really having given it a thought yet.

Her sister has been selected by the school direction for extended school hours, which is the Capitol's way of saying she's smart enough to be considered permission to continue education after the mandatory secondary level.

"Maybe they got stuck... Oh." While talking, she turns around to look out the window, facing the TV. From the small, low-resolution screen a young couple beam at her: he handsomely dark-haired, she a picture-perfect head of blond curls. Gale has one arm slung around Madge's thin shoulders, and as Katniss watches, she leans into him and places a kiss on his smooth cheek.

Katniss rolls her eyes, pushing down the bitterness that comes seeping up from the dark place within her that she has stored specially for those two together. "Not again," she mutters, wiping her hands on the dishtowel thrown over one shoulder.

Her mother cast one eye to the picture, gives a reigned sigh and then proceeds to ignore the device again. Since the cameras left Twelve, one would have thought that the broadcast would be free from star-crossed lovers nonsense, but no such luck. The TV-people had apparently taken great care to record enough material to last them all autumn, portioning it out as "updates" every now and then. They wouldn't want people to even begin forgetting about their new superstars, or about their extravagant happiness together in twin houses in the Victor's Village. Katniss can tell it's old material though. Over the course of the late summer, Gale's face had taken on some of its normal tanned complexion, while on these shots he's clinically pale.

Just then, their front gate creaks open loudly, and Katniss steps over to the window, glad to turn her back to the cursed television. "That must be her now," she says, lifting aside the thin curtain to look out for Prim's green knitted sweater. Instead, she catches a glimpse of a long dark overcoat, just as somebody starts banging insistently on the door.

Katniss exchanges a quick glance with her mother, who looks back in blank confusion. The bar over the door on the inside holds tight against the thudding, but a shrill girl's voice permeates the old wood.

"Mrs Everdeen! Please open, it's Madge."

Doing a mental double take, Katniss hesitates only a second before undoing the security bar. There's something about that urgent tone of voice that will open any door, she thinks, even if she would rather not be face to face with the Mayor's daughter.

"Thank God you're home," says the other girl as Katniss swings open the door. She has only a short moment to wonder why on Earth she would want to see her, before it becomes evident. "Is your mother here?" asks Madge, panting and trying to regain her breath.

Katniss nods shortly, and opens the door wider until it reveals her mother coming to stand right behind her.

Madge looks relieved enough to cry at the sight of her. "I need your help, please!" begs the blond girl, stressing by knitting her pale hands together against her chest, and showing off a grand display of distress in her green eyes.

"Is this about your mother?"

Katniss reflects that her mother looks at Madge with a mixture of surprise and hesitation. It is not every day that the daughter of the Mayor feels the need to come running to the district slum for medical emergencies, she supposes.

"Yes," Madge confirms, regaining her posture. "She is having another fit. The doctor couldn't help her last time. I know he can't do anything now."

She takes one more step into the house, and Katniss glimpses fine, white cotton underneath the other girl's overcoat. The muted light of paraffin lamps casts long shadows across Madge's face, stark pale against the compact October darkness outside.

"Please. You're the only one who knows what to do."

Katniss looks at both their faces in confusion, wondering what it is that she's obviously missing here. Her mother sure seems to know what Madge is talking about, and whatever it is, it makes her severe face sterner and her skin a little bit whiter still.

"You've tried the tea I gave you last time, I guess?"

Madge looks slightly contrite. "I gave her what was left the other day. And the sleeping tablets, too."

"Well then," says Katniss' mother without so much as a blink. "I'm coming. Katniss, you will have to come along, since your sister is not back yet."

If she had had a plausible excuse in store right then, Katniss would have used it without a second thought. She is simply not suited for medical care, has neither the patience nor the stomach for it, and least of all she wishes to make house calls at the Mayor's. But before she knows it, she is carrying the heavy case of herbs and equipment, trailing along after Madge and her mother, who are engaged in a hushed discussion. For all she knew, they had never crossed paths before.

It turns out they are headed towards the small estate behind the main square, where the Mayor's residence towers as the nicest building in Twelve, no competition. Technically, Madge is supposed to live in the Victor's Village, but Katniss supposes a two storey-house gets a little lonely when residing in it alone.

The evening is dark and moonless, silent apart from the clicking of Madge's heels. Cold air that speaks distinctly of autumn drifts right through Katniss' jumper, making her shiver slightly. From what she picks up of the conversation on the way there, Mrs Undersee suffers from some kind of chronic, occasional hysteria. There's talk of some kind of calming medicinal drugs and at one point the term _antidepressant _drifts by, foreign to her vocabulary but fully understandable. She has a feeling they are not going to have to deal with any blood, at least. However, she is not sure that thought is really reassuring.

The Undersees have an actual, green-grassed garden behind their tall, metal gate. They walk though it at a brisk pace, Madge running ahead to unlock the door and hold it open as she ushers them inside. Once over the doorstep, Katniss can't help but stop and stare for a second. There's a white-coloured stone staircase, wide as her living, right in front of her, with double openings to the left and right on the second floor. The wood underneath her feet is polished into a shining dark oak and laid in small sections into a decorative pattern. Her eyes sweep over actual paintings, decorative figurines and the rich, blue carpet that runs into the next room, where she catches sight of a dining table that could probably seat twenty people. Everything is so _bright_, and she blinks fervently until her eyes get a chance to adjust.

"Come on," urges her mother, who is already walking upstairs. Katniss hurries after her, side by side now with Madge and feeling a little dazed by the surroundings. Granted that her mother had grown up in anything even remotely like this, how could she stand their small, dingy Seam home?

The three of them turn right on top of the stairs, crosses one room (couches, armchairs, TV-set the size of a window) and then take a right again. The door there is closed and locked. From the other side, muffled as if the wood has been soundproofed cleverly, they can hear a woman wailing and yelling, the sound of something shattering in a thousand pieces.

Madge turns to look at the two of them gravelly, catches Katniss' eye quickly. "I'm sorry you have to see this." When she unlocks and opens the door, the sounds are amplified tenfold.

In the sudden flurry of people and broken earthenware and clothing, cries and shouts and weeping, Katniss catches sight of Mrs Undersee. The woman who she usually thinks of a reserved, well-dresses kind of lady is wildly transformed into a creature with wide, staring eyes, a mouth that opens too wide in her ghostly white face and arms flailing wildly while tears run freely down her cheeks. Peculiarly, the one thing that really stands out is how there's a small trail of blood flecking the white carpet. Katniss stares at in fixedly, not knowing where else to direct her eyes. She sure as hell doesn't think she can do anything to improve the situation, as it is.

"_Margret._ Oh thank goodness, Margret, you're back." Mrs Undersee stops dead as she sees Madge walk into the room, stretches out her shaking hands. "I knew they couldn't take you from me forever. I knew you would survive that place."

Madge's body tenses from the shoulders down as she approaches her mother with care. "Mom, it's me, Madge. I'm not your sister." She comes to stand opposite the other woman, puts her hands softly on her slumping shoulders. "Mom, please. You know Margret has been dead a long time. She's not coming back."

"_No!_" Swatting away her daughter's hands, Mrs. Undersee backs away quickly until her back hits the tapestry-decorated wall of the bedroom. Shards of shattered porcelain crunch softly between the carpet and her bare feet. "No, I know what I see, I… _Please._"

Madge has stopped advancing, her hand fluttering undecidedly in between them.

"Helen!" calls Katniss' mother's voice, steady but reprimanding. Then, a few moments and another flurry of chaos later: "try to hold her still for a moment, please."

Looking from the corner of her eye, Katniss sees Madge and her father take a painstakingly feeble hold of Mrs Undersee's arms, forcing her to stay put for a moment. In a quick, practised motion, Katniss' mother picks something from the pocket of her skirt, forces it against the other woman's nose and mouth and holds it there for a short while. After a minute, all that remains is the quick breathing of everybody in the room, followed by the sound of muffled crying.

"Helen," says her mother again, pleading but gently this time. "I need you to make an effort for me now, please. I'm going to make it go away again, but I don't have the medicine ready. I need to make new broth."

Through despairing tears, the answer is barely audible: "It hurts too much, I can't! I can't."

"I know it hurts, I do. But I also know that you can."

Katniss watches her mother put a soothing arm around the other woman's shoulders, lead her over to a plush bedside chair and gently release her there. Mrs Undersee sits, but puts her head in her hands and rocks back and forth in an unsettling manner, one in fact even more unsettling since Katniss recognises it too well.

"They cut her head off. Hacked at it again and again and… _Oh God._ _The screaming_. I can hear it!"

"_Mom, please_." Madge goes up to her again, while Katniss is joined at the door by her mother, looking solemn and grey-faced. "I'm here, at least. They couldn't take me away from you."

"He said he would protect her! Where was he? Where is he now?"

Katniss realises she has been staring at the scene displaying in front of her, against her will: mother and daughter locked in separate monologues, none of them hearing each other. She has a feeling the answer to this riddle is just out of her mind's reach, so preoccupied that she jumps when she hears her own mother speak to her.

"Come on, give me a hand in the kitchen."

Katniss follows obediently, glad to get away from the stark, electric light of the chamber, where the tension is becoming too thick to even breathe.

* * *

Following suit, the kitchen turns out to be just as grand as any of the other rooms. The working counter runs the length of an entire wall, and there are three separate sinks- all complete with running water-, an electrical stove with oven next to the full-length refrigerator and freezer. Sure, Katniss has heard about this standard of living, has known that somewhere in the realm of Panem, life is a lot more comfortable than in her outlying home. For the first time, she sees it with her own eyes, and concludes that it makes her equal parts impressed and disgusted. And more than a little bit pissed off, even if she has no time to dwell on that right now.

Under her mother's meticulous surveillance, she is put to work chopping and grinding and powdering, all to be done with small, precise movements that she has very little natural aptitude for. What keeps her from losing focus is a nagging memory in the back of her mind, one of kindness in a time when she badly needed it. It is the story of Peeta all over again, the fact that she owes someone a debt too big to ever be duly repaid. If it weren't for the Mayor's wife, she wouldn't have escaped so easily from the Justice building on that morning last spring. Most likely, she would have spent her summer slaving away in the mines without compensation. What could have happened to those who depended on her, she prefers not to think about.

Thus she's here, painstakingly measuring _exactly_ two grams of some foul-smelling powder straight from the mortar. On the stove, a distiller is dripping clear liquid into a small saucepan of water. Her mother adds the powder, every single last grain of it, stirs two times to the right and then two times to the left in a curious manner which she makes sure Katniss watches.

"Thirty minutes simmering. _Simmering, _not boiling, mind you. Then we'll distillate it again. I'm leaving you in charge for now, so make sure to stir every two minutes." She hurries out of the room, leaving her non-too pleased daughter behind.

Katniss sighs and jumps up to sit on the kitchen counter next to the cooker. She realises she has never quite appreciated the complexity of this business before, even if she's well used to seeing her mother at work with these various glass vials and grinders in their home. Thank goodness Prim has a fallacy for these things, or else she would have to learn herself.

Heels click-clack across the parquet, closer and closer, before the kitchen door opens to reveal Madge. The other girls peeks in, spots Katniss sitting there and quite evidently has a mind to leave again, but then thinks better of it. Katniss watches her approach, wondering if she should jump down off the counter, or pretend like nothing and stay seated. Madge says nothing of it, in fact says nothing at all for some time, while picking a glass from a shelf and filling it with water. She drinks, keeping her eyes averted. Then she says, out of the blue: "He misses you."

Effectively thrown off guard, Katniss' eyebrows shoot up and then furrow. She's silent for some time, just holding the other girl's gaze. There's really no question of whom she is speaking.

"I told him not to," she answers eventually, the closest thing to a peace offering she can think to say.

Madge's eyes narrow and she sighs exasperatedly. "You're both too stubborn for your own good," she says, looking too worn out for her young age and momentarily nothing like the Girl on Fire that smiles at the cameras, despite her elegant clothing.

To this, Katniss really has no comment, and besides, she's pretty sure that Madge doesn't know the full truth. She has no inclination to give it away now.

The blond girl must see the reluctance to talk about it in her eyes, because she just sighs again, refills her water glass. "I'm just saying, what you're doing is making him unhappy. Well, more unhappy."

Sighing right back at her, Katniss swallows a great gulp of bitterness, just about managing to answer maturely. "I have my reasons," she mutters, meeting those green, shielded eyes and daring them to question her.

The only response is a thoughtful nod, followed by a long silence as both of them fidget with glasses and pots. Just as Madge is about to leave, Katniss can't help but to blurt out the question that is burning at her tongue.

"What's wrong with her?"

Madge stops, her back already towards the stove. She turns her head around, meeting Katniss' eyes fully again with an expression somewhat like mild scepticism.

"You don't know?" she asks, her face softening just a little bit. "I think you do. She's what your mother could have been."

She turns to walk out again, but stops a second time. "So you see, Katniss, we're not so different as you think," she remarks, her voice kind but not without an edge. Her white dress billows out behind her as she exits the room, as per usual almost leaving behind more questions than she answers.

Katniss stares after her with growing uneasiness. She knows it's the truth, had already suspected it but been quite unwilling to confess it to herself. Come to think of it, she thinks as she reaches over to stir the liquid again, she even recognises the smell of this medicine. Its sticky sweet scent, with undertones of something vile and bitter, marks her last memories of those dark months, when her mother was mentally nowhere to be found in this world. For reasons she would rather not dwell on, finding out that Madge has grown up knowing that same helpless frustration confirms what the girls had just said. They might not be worlds apart, after all. She doesn't _want to_, not in the least, but she can't help relating to the situation. Call it sympathy or whatever; it's there. After all, there had been a time when Katniss had almost called Madge her friend, and perhaps that time is not so completely past as she would have thought.

Ten minutes later, she hears the door open and hushed voices enter the house. One of them in particular, her ears pick up on by routine. She could tell it apart anytime and anywhere, if only because of the way her heart becomes as good as audible.

"… _should have waited at the door?"_

"No need, here she is now. Took your sweet time getting here, princess," sounds another familiar voice, gruff and grinding. "Forced me to come rushing, middle of the night and everything. In the middle of my favourite drink." A glimpse of Haymitch pushing inside is visible through the half-closed kitchen door, staggering only slightly and having trouble removing his coat.

"What are you doing here?" Madge sounds more upset than relieved to see the newcomers, by the tone of her voice close to the limit of what she can handle in one night.

"Apparently there was an emergency that required my sharpest attention," drawls Haymitch, sounding like Katniss remembers him from before she knew he has a non-havoc-causing side to him. "Hawthorne here just so happened to tag along."

Several pairs of shoes clatter up the staircase, as Madge's unbelieving voice rings through the house: "_Dad_! You called _Haymitch_?"

"_I didn't know how long you were going to be,_" comes the muted answer, before the noise of an upstairs door firmly closing silences that conversation.

Shaking her head to clear it from excessive craziness, Katniss stirs thoroughly in the puttering mix on the stove. As it turns out though, she is not quite rid of the temptation to listen in to private conversations just yet. It is that timbre of voice that she can't tune out, and it pulls her away from her duty, across the threshold to the grand hall.

"Of course I had to come. Why do you even ask that?"

On the left-hand landing, she finds the source of the voice, looking a lot like he always does, in a rolled-up long-sleeve shirt and dark hair once again cut short. She wonders fleetingly what made him finally give up and crop it.

"You know this happens sometimes, it's no big deal, Gale," answers Madge tiredly, facing him but leaning her side against the railing.

"But it is a big deal to you. I was at Haymitch's house anyway. Couldn't just go home."

The blond girl sighs heavily, and pulls a thin, long-fingered hand through her hair. "You don't have to pretend anymore, you know."

"What makes you think I need to pretend to be here?" Gale sounds defensive and tired, but not in the least does he sound insincere.

Katniss' insides turn uncomfortably.

"Oh I don't know, past experience?" retorts Madge, sounding uncharacteristically cynical.

"Madge. I want to be here for you, okay? We're in all of this together. So let's face it together. Right?"

Katniss watches, unnoticed, as Gale firmly pulls her against his chest, holds her there for a long moment while saying something too softly into her hair. Madge nods, looks up at him with something like a smile, and quickly places a kiss on his cheek. He keeps an arm over her shoulder as they disappear towards the living compartment.

Sharp stabs of something dark and dangerous prick at her heart in an assault too instinctive for her to prevent it. It seeps down towards her stomach, rises suffocating in her throat, creates hot flames of jealousy that feel like they will burn her from inside. The worst thing is she can't even be angry about it, not in the way that she wants to. Spiting Madge for taking the place that is rightfully hers would be so easy, but unfortunately, it is not something she can bring herself to do. Not now anyway, after what she has seen tonight.

Some five minutes, much frenetic stirring of the medicine and a huge effort to swallow her bitterness later, Katniss hears the door open as her mother walks into the kitchen.

"Please let it be ready," she mutters, walking up to pick the spoon out of Katniss' hand. "I can't take another minute of this."

"You knew her," says Katniss plainly, still trying to make sense of everything.

The older woman casts a sidelong glance at her, while meticulously checking the consistency and colour of the broth.

"Yes, I used to know them both," she answers, her voice very far away. "Margret was my best friend, until the second Quarter Quell happened. Her twin sister never quite recovered, as you can see."

"Did you?" Katniss doesn't bother pretending with her mother, hasn't for the last few years. In return, she gets a sigh as deep as the ocean, but also no unfazed truth.

"Not quite."

They ascend the stairs; Katniss assigned the task of bringing up a tray of small glass bottles. Each one is filled to the brim with liquid the colour of smoky ash. She follows her mother with rising anxiety, unwilling to enter that bedroom again, but walks through the door anyway, carefully balancing.

Eyes down, she still can't escape noticing how all heads in the room whip around to look as they walk in. It's hushed in there now, the lights turned down to a dim glow. She notices two figures closely together near the door; another one slumped in an armchair by the fireplace. The Mayor stands against the wall behind the chair where his wife is still seated, watching her helplessly rocking back and forth.

"You were supposed to save her," comes the accusing, muffled voice of Mrs Undersee. "You said you would bring her back!"

Confirming Katniss' sneaking suspicions, it is Haymitch who speaks up, answering to the address. "I couldn't, Helen. I tried." From his voice, it sounds like this is a reoccurring argument. He sounds the closest thing to serious Katniss has ever heard him. "Your daughter is home now. Focus on that and try to forget the rest."

Through her hands, Mrs Undersee actually laughs, an unpleasant crackling sort of noise. "Just like you're trying to forget with that bottle?"

"Enough," interrupts Katniss' mother, before the argument can get past civilised, "calm down and drink this."

Setting her burden down carefully on the bedside table, Katniss hands her mother a coffee cup containing the ready dose. A quick stir of something herbal later, Helen Undersee accepts it into waiting hands. Katniss risks a glance around the room, aiming to judge the general atmosphere. Instead, her eyes lock straight into another pair of grey ones. She blinks, hates how she can tell straight away that it is guilt she sees there, mixed with surprise. Skating her focus onwards while hoping her own expression didn't give away as much, she notices that his arm is still steady around Madge's shoulders. She has her face half tucked into his chest, but the slight gleam in her eyes confirms that she is watching the other girl in the room, too.

They make no move to separate, even if Katniss is pretty sure she sees Gale's arm twitch slightly. He looks at her and she can't quite help but look back, but in between them there seems to be this impenetrable barrier. For the first time, she has absolutely no idea what goes on in his mind and it's unsettling; makes him look unfamiliar, turns his features suddenly into a stranger's. She feels her own face fall into a frown, then immediately tries to smooth it out. Thankfully, her mother sorts out the situation right then, giving her no time to react.

"That's my job done," she says, taking the cup off the other woman's hands and setting it back on the tray. "You should all leave her rest now, too. Show's over."

She leads the way to the door, all business, explaining the details of the medication over again to Madge. "Katniss?"

Starting, Katniss realises she's free to go, at last. She keeps her eyes straight ahead while crossing the room, but then when she's almost at the door, at the most crucial point in front of _them_, Madge speaks to her suddenly:

"Thank you," is all she says, quietly but with heavy weight to her words.

Katniss stops momentarily, risks a quick look up at the girl who should by fate be her nemesis. The thing is, she looks more like something of a friend. Nodding once by way of answer, she slips quickly out of the room, out of the house, without so much as a second glance.

Can't fault him for not holding up his part of the plan, she reflects as she picks her way through the darkened streets of Twelve ahead of her mother.

"See, mom," she half-whispers when they have finally cleared the eerily quiet streets of the merchant quarters and are back in the raggedness of the Seam, "sometimes things are _exactly _what they seem."

In response, she gets a _hummed _neither-yes-nor-no, and a cryptic "hope is stronger than spite." In the faint moonlight, she thinks she sees her mother look at her with something like amused compassion. She wonders, not for the first time, what the world looks like through her mother's flimsy filter of abstraction- only to remind herself that she hopes she never has to find out. One close call was certainly enough.


End file.
